The mocking-bird sang as of old in the myrtle-boughs that shaded the
study-window, and within the parsonage reigned the peaceful repose
which seemed ever to rest like a benediction upon it. A ray of sunshine
stealing through the myrtle-leaves made golden ripples on the wall; a
bright wood-fire blazed in the wide, deep, old-fashioned chimney; the
white cat slept on the rug, with her pink paws turned toward the
crackling flames; and blue and white hyacinths hung their fragrant
bells over the gilded edge of the vases on the mantelpiece. Huldah sat
on one side of the hearth peeling a red apple; and, snugly wrapped in
his palm-leaf cashmere dressing-gown, Mr. Hammond rested in his
cushioned easy-chair, with his head thrown far back, and his fingers
clasping a large bunch of his favorite violets, His snowy hair drifted
away from a face thin and pale, but serene and happy, and in his bright
blue eyes there was a humorous twinkle, and on his lips a
half-smothered smile, as he listened to the witticisms of his Scotch
countrymen in "Noctes Ambrosianae."
Close to his chair sat Edna, reading aloud from the quaint and
inimitable book he loved so well, and pausing now and then to explain
some word which Huldah did not understand, or to watch for symptoms of
weariness in the countenance of the invalid.
The three faces contrasted vividly in the ruddy glow of the fire. That
of the little girl, round, rosy, red-lipped, dimpled, merry-eyed; the
aged pastor's wrinkled cheeks and furrowed brow and streaming silver
beard; and the carved-ivory features of the governess, borrowing no
color from the soft folds of her rich merino dress. As daylight ebbed,
the ripple danced up to the ceiling and vanished, like the pricked
bubble of a human hope; the mocking-bird hushed his vesper-hymn; and
Edna closed the book and replaced it on the shelf.
Huldah tied on her scarlet-lined hood, kissed her friends good-bye, and
went back to Le Bocage; and the old man and the orphan sat looking at
the grotesque flicker of the flames on the burnished andirons.
"Edna, are you tired, or can you sing some for me?"
"Reading aloud rarely fatigues me. What shall I sing?"
"That solemn, weird thing in the 'Prophet,' which suits your voice so
well."
She sang 'Ah, mon fils!' and then, without waiting for the request
which she knew would follow, gave him some of his favorite Scotch songs.
As the last sweet strains of "Mary of Argyle" echoed through the study,
the pastor shut his eyes, and memory flew back to the early years when
his own wife Mary had sung those words in that room, and his dead
darlings clustered eagerly around the piano to listen to their mother's
music. Five fair-browed, innocent young faces circling about the
idolized wife, and baby Annie nestling in her cradle beside the hearth,
playing with her waxen fingers and crowing softly. Death had stolen his
household jewels; but recollection robbed the grave, and music's magic
touch unsealed "memory's golden urn."
"Oh! death in life, the days that are no more!"
Edna thought he had fallen asleep, he was so still, his face was so
placid; and she came softly back to her chair and looked at the ruby
temples and towers, the glittering domes and ash-gray ruined arcades
built by the oak coals.
A month had elapsed since her arrival at the parsonage, and during that
short period Mr. Hammond had rallied and recovered his strength so
unexpectedly that hopes were entertained of his entire restoration; and
he spoke confidently of being able to reenter his pulpit on Easter
Sunday.
The society of his favorite pupil seemed to render him completely
happy, and his countenance shone in the blessed light that gladdened
his heart. After a long, dark, stormy day, the sun of his life was
preparing to set in cloudless peace and glory.
Into all of Edna's literary schemes he entered eagerly. She read to him
the MS. of her new book as far as it was written, and was gratified by
his perfect satisfaction with the style, plot, and aim.
Mrs. Murray came every day to the parsonage, but Edna had not visited
Le Bocage; and though Mr. Murray spent two mornings of each week with
Mr. Hammond, he called at stated hours, and she had not yet met him.
Twice she had heard his voice in earnest conversation, and several
times she had seen his tall figure coming up the walk, but of his
features she caught not even a glimpse. St. Elmo's name had never been
mentioned in her presence by either his mother or the pastor, but
Huldah talked ceaselessly of his kindness to her. Knowing the days on
which he came to the parsonage, Edna always absented herself from the
invalid's room until the visit was over.
One afternoon she went to the church to play on the organ; and after an
hour of mournful enjoyment in the gallery so fraught with precious
reminiscences, she left the church and found Tamerlane tied to the iron
gate, but his master was not visible. She knew that he was somewhere in
the building or yard, and denied herself the pleasure of going there a
second time.
Neither glance nor word had been exchanged since they parted at the
railroad station, eighteen months before. She longed to know his
opinion of her book, for many passages had been written with special
reference to his perusal; but she would not ask; and it was a sore
trial to sit in one room, hearing the low, indistinct murmur of his
voice in the next, and yet never to see him.
Few women could have withstood the temptation; but the orphan dreaded
his singular power over her heart, and dared not trust herself in his
presence.
This evening, as she sat with the firelight shining on her face,
thinking of the past, she could not realize that only two years had
elapsed since she came daily to this quiet room to recite her lessons;
for during that time she had suffered so keenly in mind and body that
it seemed as if weary ages had gone over her young head. Involuntarily
she sighed, and passed her hand across her forehead. A low tap at the
door diverted her thoughts, and a servant entered and gave her a
package of letters from New York. Every mail brought one from Felix;
and now opening his first, a tender smile parted her lips as she read
his passionate, importunate appeal for her speedy return, and saw that
the closing lines were blotted with tears. The remaining eight letters
were from persons unknown to her, and contained requests for autographs
and photographs, for short sketches for papers in different sections of
the country, and also various inquiries concerning the time when her
new book would probably be ready for press. All were kind, friendly,
gratifying, and one was eloquent with thanks for the good effect
produced by a magazine article on a dissipated, irreligious husband and
father, who, after its perusal, had resolved to reform, and wished her
to know the beneficial influence which she exerted. At the foot of the
page was a line penned by the rejoicing wife, invoking heaven's
choicest blessings on the author's head.
"Is not the laborer worthy of his hire?" Edna felt that her wages were
munificent indeed; that her coffers were filling, and though the "Thank
God!" was not audible, the great joy in her uplifted eyes attracted the
attention of the pastor, who had been silently watching her, and he
laid his hand on hers.
"What is it, my dear?"
"The reward God has given me!"
She read aloud the contents of the letter, and there was a brief
silence, broken at last by Mr. Hammond.
"Edna, my child, are you really happy?"
"So happy that I believe the wealth of California could not buy this
sheet of paper, which assures me that I have been instrumental in
bringing sunshine to a darkened household; in calling the head of a
family from haunts of vice and midnight orgies back to his wife and
children; back to the shrine of prayer at his own hearthstone! I have
not lived in vain, for through my work a human soul has been brought to
Jesus, and I thank God that I am accounted worthy to labor in my Lord's
vineyard! Oh! I will wear that happy wife's blessing in my inmost
heart, and like those old bells in Cambridgeshire, inscribed, 'Pestem
fungo! Sabbata pango!' it shall ring a silvery chime, exorcising all
gloom, and loneliness, and sorrow."
The old man's eyes filled as he noted the radiance of the woman's
lovely face.
"You have indeed cause for gratitude and great joy, as you realize all
the good you are destined to accomplish, and I know the rapture of
saving souls, for, through God's grace, I believe I have snatched some
from the brink of ruin. But, Edna, can the triumph of your genius, the
applause of the world, the approval of conscience, even the assurance
that you are laboring successfully for the cause of Christ--can all
these things satisfy your womanly heart--your loving, tender heart? My
child, there is a dreary look sometimes in your eyes, that reveals
loneliness, almost weariness of life. I have studied your countenance
closely when it was in repose; I read it I think without errors; and as
often as I hear your writings praised, I recall those lines, written by
one of the noblest of your own sex:
'To have our books
Appraised by love, associated with love,
While we sit loveless! is it hard, you think?
At least, 'tis mournful.'
Edna, are you perfectly contented with your lot?"
A shadow drifted slowly over the marble face, and though it settled on
no feature, the whole countenance was changed.
"I can not say that I am perfectly content, and yet I would not
exchange places with any woman I know."
"Do you never regret a step which you took one evening, yonder in my
church?"
"No, sir, I do not regret it. I often thank God that I was able to obey
my conscience and take that step."
"Suppose that in struggling up the steep path of duty one soul needs
the encouragement, the cheering companionship which only one other
human being can give? Will the latter be guiltless if the aid is
obstinately withheld?"
"Suppose the latter feels that in joining hands both would stumble?"
"You would not, oh, Edna! you would lift each other to noble heights!
Each life would be perfect, complete. My child, will you let me tell
you some things that ought to--"
She threw up her hand, with that old, childish gesture which he
remembered so well, and shook her head.
"No, sir; no, sir! Please tell me nothing that will rouse a sorrow I am
striving to drug. Spare me, for as St. Chrysostom once said of Olympias
the deaconess, I 'live in perpetual fellowship with pain.'"
"My dear little Edna, as I look at you and think of your future, I am
troubled about you. I wish I could confidently say to you, what that
same St. Chrysostom wrote to Pentadia: 'For I know your great and lofty
soul, which can sail as with a fair wind through many tempests, AND IN
THE MIDST OF THE WAVES ENJOY A WHITE CALM.'"
She turned and took the minister's hand in hers, while an indescribable
peace settled on her countenance, and stilled the trembling of her low,
sweet voice:
"Across the gray stormy billows of life, that 'white calm' of eternity
is rimming the water-line, coming to meet me. Already the black
pilot-boat heaves in sight; I hear the signal, and Death will soon take
the helm and steer my little bark safely into the shining rest, into
God's 'white calm.'"
She went to the piano and sang, as a solo, "Night's Shade no Longer,"
from Moses in Egypt.
While the pastor listened, he murmured to himself:
"Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul,
In pain and trouble cherished;
Sublime is the spirit of hope that lives
When earthly hope has perished."
She turned over the sheets of music, hunting for a German hymn of which
Mr. Hammond was very fond, but he called her back to the fireplace.
"My dear, do you recollect that beautiful passage in Faber's 'Sights
and Thoughts in Foreign Churches'? 'There is seldom a line of glory
written upon the earth's face but a line of suffering runs parallel
with it; and they that read the lustrous syllables of the one, and
stoop not to decipher the spotted and worn inscription of the other,
get the least half of the lesson earth has to give.'"
"No, sir; I never read the book. Something in that passage brings to my
mind those words of Martin Luther's, which explain so many of the
'spotted inscriptions' of this earth: 'Our Lord God doth like a
printer, who setteth the letters backward. We see and feel well His
setting, but we shall read the print yonder, in the life to come!' Mr.
Hammond, it is said that, in the Alexandrian MS, in the British Museum,
there is a word which has been subjected to microscopic examination, to
determine whether it is oe, who, or thC--which is the abbreviation of
theoz, God Sometimes I think that so ought we to turn the lens of faith
on many dim, perplexing inscriptions traced in human history, and
perhaps we might oftener find God."
"Yes, I have frequently thought that the MS of every human life was
like a Peruvian Quippo, a mass of many colored cords or threads, tied
and knotted by unseen, and, possibly, angel hands. Here, my dear, put
these violets in water, they are withering. By the way, Edna, I am glad
to find that in your writings you attach so much importance to the
ministry of flowers, and that you call the attention of your readers to
the beautiful arguments which they furnish in favor of the Christian
philosophy of a divine design in nature. Truly,
'Your voiceless lips, O flowers' are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From lowliest nook'"
At this moment the door-bell rang, and soon after the servant brought
in a telegraphic dispatch, addressed to Mr. Hammond.
It was from Gordon Leigh, announcing his arrival in New York, and
stating that he and Gertrude would reach the parsonage some time during
the ensuing week.
Edna went into the kitchen to superintend the preparation of the
minister's supper; and when she returned and placed the waiter on the
table near his chair, she told him that she must go back to New York
immediately after the arrival of Gordon and Gertrude, as her services
would no longer be required at the parsonage and her pupils needed her.
Two days passed without any further allusion to a subject which was
evidently uppermost in Mr. Hammond's mind.
On the morning of the third, Mrs. Murray said, as she rose to conclude
her visit, "You are so much better, sir, that I must claim Edna for a
day at least. She has not yet been to Le Bocage; and as she goes away
so soon, I want to take her home with me this morning. Clara Inge
promised me that she would stay with you until evening. Edna, get your
bonnet. I shall be entirely alone to-day, for St. Elmo has carried
Huldah to the plantation, and they will not get home until late. So, my
dear, we shall have the house all to ourselves."
The orphan could not deny herself the happiness offered she knew that
she ought not to go, but for once her strength failed her, she yielded
to the temptation.
During the drive Mrs. Murray talked cheerfully of various things, and
for the first time laid aside entirely the haughty constraint which had
distinguished her manner since they travelled south from New York.
They entered the avenue, and Edna gave herself up to the rushing
recollections which were so mournfully sweet. As they went into the
house, and the servants hurried forward to welcome her, she could not
repress her tears. She felt that this was her home, her heart's home;
and as numerous familiar objects met her eyes, Mrs. Murray saw that she
was almost overpowered by her emotions.
"I wonder if there is any other place on earth half so beautiful!"
murmured the governess several hours later, as they sat looking out
over the lawn, where the deer and sheep were browsing.
"Certainly not to our partial eyes. And yet without you, my child, it
does not seem like home. It is the only home where you will ever be
happy."
"Yes, I know it; but it cannot be mine. Mrs. Murray, I want to see my
own little room."
"Certainly; you know the way. I will join you there presently. Nobody
has occupied it since you left, for I feel toward your room as I once
felt toward the empty cradle of my dead child."
Edna went up-stairs alone and closed the door of the apartment she had
so long called hers, and looked with childish pleasure and affection at
the rosewood furniture.
Turning to the desk where she had written much that the world now
praised and loved, she saw a vase containing a superb bouquet, with a
card attached by a strip of ribbon. The hothouse flowers were arranged
with exquisite taste, and the orphan's cheeks glowed suddenly as she
recognized Mr. Murray's handwriting on the card: "For Edna Earl." When
she took up the bouquet a small envelope similarly addressed, dropped
out.
For some minutes she stood irresolute, fearing to trust herself with
the contents; then she drew a chair to the desk, sat down, and broke
the seal:
"My DARLING: Will you not permit me to see you before you leave the
parsonage? Knowing the peculiar circumstances that brought you back, I
cannot take advantage of them and thrust myself into your presence
without your consent. I have left home to-day, because I felt assured
that, much as you might desire to see 'Le Bocage,' you would never come
here while there was a possibility of meeting me. You, who know
something of my wayward, sinful, impatient temper, can perhaps imagine
what I suffer, when I am told that your health is wretched, that you
are in the next room, and yet, that I must not, shall not see you--my
own Edna! Do you wonder that I almost grow desperate at the thought
that only a wall--a door--separates me from you, whom I love better
than my life? Oh, my darling! Allow me one more interview! Do not make
my punishment heavier than I can bear. It is hard--it is bitter enough
to know that you can not, or will not trust me; at least let me see
your dear face again. Grant me one hour--it may be the last we shall
ever spend together in this world. "Your own, ST. ELMO."
"Ah, my God! pity me! Why--oh! why is it that I am tantalized with
glimpses of a great joy never to be mine in this life! Why, in
struggling to do my duty, am I brought continually to the very gate of
the only Eden I am ever to find in this world, and yet can never
surprise the watching Angel of Wrath, and have to stand shivering
outside, and see my Eden only by the flashing of the sword that bars my
entrance?"
Looking at the handwriting so different from any other which she had
ever examined, her thoughts were irresistibly carried back to that
morning when, at the shop, she saw this handwriting for the first time
on the blank leaf of the Dante; and she recalled the shuddering
aversion with which her grandfather had glanced at it, and advised her
to commit it to the flames of the forge.
How many such notes as this had been penned to Annie and Gertrude, and
to that wretched woman shut up in an Italian convent, and to others of
whose names she was ignorant?
Mrs. Murray opened the door, looked in, and said:
"Come, I want to show you something really beautiful."
Edna put the note in her pocket, took the bouquet, and followed her
friend down-stairs, through the rotunda, to the door of Mr. Murray's
sitting-room.
"My son locked this door and carried the key with him; but after some
search, I have found another that will open it. Come in, Edna. Now look
at that large painting hanging over the sarcophagus. It is a copy of
Titian's 'Christ Crowned with Thorns,' the original of which is in a
Milan church, I believe. While St. Elmo was last abroad, he was in
Genoa one afternoon when a boat was capsized. Being a fine swimmer, he
sprang into the water where several persons were struggling, and saved
the lives of two little children of an English gentleman, who had his
hands quite full in rescuing his wife. Two of the party were drowned,
but the father was so grateful to my son that he has written him
several letters, and last year he sent him this picture, which, though
of course much smaller than the original, is considered a very fine
copy. I begged to have it hung in the parlor, but fearing, I suppose,
that its history might possibly be discovered (you know how he despises
anything like a parade of good deeds), St. Elmo insisted on bringing it
here to this Egyptian Museum, where, unfortunately, people can not see
it."
For some time they stood admiring it, and then Edna's eyes wandered
away to the Taj Mahal, to the cabinets and book-cases. Her lip began to
quiver as every article of furniture babbled of the By-Gone--of the
happy evenings spent here--of that hour when the idea of authorship
first seized her mind and determined her future.
Mrs. Murray walked up to the arch, over which the curtains fell
touching the floor, and laying her hand on the folds of silk, said
hesitatingly:
"I am going to show you something that my son would not easily forgive
me for betraying; for it is a secret he guards most jealously--"
"No, I would rather not see it. I wish to learn nothing which Mr.
Murray is not willing that I should know."
"You will scarcely betray me to my son when you see what it is; and
beside, I am determined you shall have no room to doubt the truth of
some things he has told you. There is no reason why you should not look
at it. Do you recognize that face yonder, over the mantelpiece?"
She held the curtains back, and despite her reluctance to glancing into
the inner room, Edna raised her eyes timidly, and saw, in a
richly-carved oval frame, hanging on the opposite wall, a life-size
portrait of herself.
"We learned from the newspapers that some fine photographs had been
taken in New York, and I sent on and bought two. St. Elmo took one of
them to an artist in Charleston, and superintended the painting of that
portrait. When he returned, just before I went North, he brought the
picture with him, and with his own hands hung it yonder. I have noticed
that since that day he always keeps the curtains down over the arch,
and never leaves the house without locking his rooms."
Edna had dropped her crimsoned face in her hands, but Mrs. Murray
raised it forcibly and kissed her.
"I want you to know how well he loves you--how necessary you are to his
happiness. Now I must leave you, for I see Mrs. Montgomery's carriage
at the door. You have a note to answer; there are writing materials on
the table yonder."
She went out, closing the door softly, and Edna was alone with
surroundings that pleaded piteously for the absent master. Oxalis and
heliotrope peeped at her over the top of the lotos vases; one of a pair
of gauntlets had fallen on the carpet near the cameo cabinet; two or
three newspapers and a meerschaum lay upon a chair; several theological
works were scattered on the sofa, and the air was heavy with lingering
cigar-smoke.
Just in front of the Taj Mahal was a handsome copy of Edna's novel, and
a beautiful morocco-bound volume containing a collection of all her
magazine sketches.
She sat down in the crimson-cushioned armchair that was drawn close to
the circular table, where pen and paper told that the owner had
recently been writing, and near the ink-stand was a handkerchief with
German initials, S. E. M.
Upon a mass of loose papers stood a quaint bronze paper-weight,
representing Cartaphilds, the Wandering Jew; and on the base was
inscribed Mr. Murray's favorite Arabian maxim: "Ed dunya djifetun ve
talibeha kilabi": "THE WORLD IS AN ABOMINATION, AND THOSE WHO TOIL
ABOUT IT ARE DOGS."
There, too, was her own little Bible; and as she took it up it opened
at the fourteenth chapter of St. John, where she found, as a book-mark,
the photograph of herself from which the portrait had been painted. An
unwithered geranium sprig lying among the leaves whispered that the
pages had been read that morning.
Out on the lawn birds swung in the elm-twigs, singing cheerily, lambs
bleated and ran races, and the little silver bell on Huldah's pet fawn,
"Edna," tinkled ceaselessly.
"Help me, O my God! in this the last hour of my trial."
The prayer went up meaningly, and Edna took a pen and turned to write.
Her arm struck a portfolio lying on the edge of the table, and in
falling loose sheets of paper fluttered out on the carpet. One caught
her eye; she picked it up and found a sketch of the ivied ruins of
Phyle. Underneath the drawing, and dated fifteen years before, were
traced, in St. Elmo's writing, those lines which Henry Soame is said to
have penned on the blank leaf of a copy of the "Pleasures of Memory":
"Memory makes her influence known
By sighs, and tears, and grief alone.
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong
The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funereal song!
She tells of time misspent, of comfort lost,
Of fair occasions gone forever by;
Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely crossed,
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die;
For what, except the instinctive fear
Lest she survive, detains me here,
When all the 'Life of Life' is fled?"
The lonely woman looked upward, appealingly, and there upon the wall
she met--not as formerly, the gleaming, augurous, inexorable eyes of
the Cimbrian Prophetess--but the pitying God's gaze of Titian's Jesus.
When Mrs. Murray returned to the room, Edna sat as still as one of the
mummies in the sarcophagus, with her head thrown back, and the long,
black eyelashes sweeping her colorless cheeks.
One hand was pressed over her heart, the other held a note directed to
St. Elmo Murray; and the cold, fixed features were so like those of an
Angel of Death sometimes sculptured on cenotaphs, that Mrs. Murray
uttered a cry of alarm.
As she bent over her, Edna opened her arms and said in a feeble, spent
tone:
"Take me back to the parsonage. I ought not to have come here; I might
have known I was not strong enough."
"You have had one of those attacks. Why did you not call me? I will
bring you some wine."
"No; only let me go away as soon as possible. Oh! I am ashamed of my
weakness."
She rose, and her pale lips writhed as her sad eyes wandered in a
farewell glance around the room.
She put the unsealed note in Mrs. Murray's hand, and turned toward the
door.
"Edna! My daughter! you have not refused St. Elmo's request?"
"My mother! Pity me! I could not grant it."