"They have come. I hear Gertrude's birdish voice."
The words had scarcely passed Mr. Hammond's lips ere his niece bounded
into the room, followed by her husband.
Edna was sitting on the chintz-covered lounge, mending a basketful of
the old man's clothes that needed numerous stitches and buttons, and,
throwing aside her sewing materials, she rose to meet the travellers.
At sight of her Gordon Leigh stopped suddenly and his face grew
instantly as bloodless as her own.
"Edna! Oh! how changed! What a wreck!"
He grasped her outstretched hand, folded it in his, which trembled
violently, and a look of anguish mastered his features, as his eyes
searched her calm countenance.
"I did not think it would come so soon. Passing away in the early
morning of your life! Oh, my pure, broken lily!"
He did not seem to heed his wife's presence, until she threw her arms
around Edna, exclaiming:
"Get away, Gordon! I want her all to myself. Why, you pale darling!
What a starved ghost you are! Not half as substantial as my shadow, is
she, Gordon? Oh, Edna! how I have longed to see you, to tell you how I
enjoyed your dear, delightful, grand, noble book! To tell you what a
great woman I think you are; and how proud of you I am. A gentleman who
came over in the steamer with us, asked me how much you paid me per
annum to puff you. He was a miserable old cynic of a bachelor,
ridiculed all women unmercifully, and at last I told him I would bet
both my ears that the reason he was so bearish and hateful, was because
some pretty girl had flirted with him outrageously. He turned up his
ugly nose especially at 'blue stockings'; said all literary women were
'hopeless pedants and slatterns,' and quoted that abominable Horace
Walpole's account of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's 'dirt and vivacity.' I
really thought Gordon would throw him overboard. I wonder what he would
say if he could see you darning Uncle Allan's socks. Oh, Edna, dearie!
I am sorry to find you looking so pale."
All this was uttered interjectionally between vigorous hugs and warm,
tender kisses, and as Gertrude threw her bonnet and wrappings on the
lounge, she continued:
"I wished for you just exactly ten thousand times while I was abroad,
there were so many things that you could have described so beautifully.
Gordon, don't Edna's eyes remind you very much of that divine picture
of the Madonna at Dresden?"
She looked round for an answer, but her husband had left the room, and,
recollecting a parcel that had been stowed away in the pocket of the
carriage, she ran out to get it.
Presently she reappeared at the door, with a goblet in her hand.
"Uncle Allan, who carries the keys now?"
"Edna. What will you have, my dear?"
"I want some brandy. Gordon looks very pale, and complains of not
feeling well, so I intend to make him a mint-julep. Ah, Edna! These
husbands are such troublesome creatures."
She left the room jingling the bunch of keys, and a few moments after
they heard her humming an air from "Rigoletto," as she bent over the
mint-bed, under the study window.
Mr. Hammond, who had observed all that passed, and saw the earnest
distress clouding the orphan's brow, said gravely:
"She has not changed an iota; she never will be anything more than a
beautiful, merry child, and is a mere pretty pet, not a companion in
the true sense of the word. She is not quick-witted, or she would
discern a melancholy truth that might overshadow all her life. Unless
Gordon learns more self-control, he will ere long betray himself. I
expostulated with him before his marriage, but for once he threw my
warning to the winds. I am an old man, and have seen many phases of
human nature, and watched the development of many characters; and I
have found that these pique marriages are always mournful--always
disastrous. In such instances I would with more pleasure officiate at
the grave than at the altar. Once Estelle and Agnes persuaded me that
St. Elmo was about to wreck himself on this rock of ruin, and even his
mother's manner led me to believe that he would marry his cousin; but,
thank God! he was wiser than I feared."
"Mr. Hammond, are you sure that Gertrude loves Mr. Leigh?"
"Oh! yes, my dear! Of that fact there can be no doubt. Why do you
question it?"
"She told me once that Mr. Murray had won her heart."
It was the first time Edna had mentioned his name since her return, and
it brought a faint flush to her cheeks.
"That was a childish whim which she has utterly forgotten. A woman of
her temperament never remains attached to a man from whom she is long
separated. I do not suppose that she remembered St. Elmo a month after
she ceased to meet him. I feel assured that she loves Gordon as well as
she can love any one. She is a remarkably sweet-tempered, unselfish,
gladsome woman, but is not capable of very deep, lasting feeling."
"I will go away at once. This is Saturday, and I will start to New York
early Monday morning. Mr. Leigh is weaker than I ever imagined he could
be."
The outline of her mouth hardened, and into her eyes crept an
expression of scorn, that very rarely found a harbor there.
"Yes, my dear; although it grieves me to part with you, I know it is
best that you should not be here, at least for the present. Agnes is
visiting friends at the North and when she returns, Gordon and Gertrude
will remove to their new house. Then, Edna, if I feel that I need you,
if I write for you, will you not come back to me? Dear child, I want
your face to be the last I look upon in this world."
She drew the pastor's shrunken hand to her lips, and shook her head.
"Do not ask me to do that which my strength will not permit. There are
many reasons why I ought not to come here again; and, moreover, my work
calls me hence, to a distant field. My physical strength seems to be
ebbing fast, and my vines are not all purple with mellow fruit. Some
clusters, thank God! are fragrant, ripe, and ready for the wine-press,
when the Angel of the Vintage comes to gather them in; but my work is
only half done. Not until my fingers clasp white flowers under a pall,
shall it be said of me, 'Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little
folding of the hands to sleep.' In coelo quies! The German idea of
death is to me peculiarly comforting and touching, 'Heimgang'--GOING
HOME. Ah, sir! humanity ought to be homesick; and in thinking of that
mansion beyond the star-paved pathway of the sky, whither Jesus has
gone to prepare our places, we children of earth should, like the
Swiss, never lose our home-sickness. Our bodies are of the dust--dusty,
and bend dustward; but our souls floated down from the sardonyx walls
of the Everlasting City, and brought with them a yearning maladie du
pays, which should help them to struggle back. Sometimes I am tempted
to believe that the joys of this world are the true lotos, devouring
which, mankind glory in exile, and forget the Heimgang. Oh! indeed,
'here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.' Heimgang!
Thank God! going home for ever!"
The splendor of the large eyes seemed almost unearthly as she looked
out over the fields, where in summers past the shout of the merry
reapers rose like the songs of Greek harvesters to Demeter! Nay, nay,
as a hymn of gratitude and praise to Him who "feedeth the fowls of the
air," and maketh the universe a vast Sarepta, in which the cruse never
faileth the prophets of God. Edna sat silent for some time, with her
slender hands folded on her lap, and the pastor heard her softly
repeating, as if to her own soul, those lines on "Life":
"A cry between the silences,
A shadow-birth of clouds at strife
With sunshine on the hills of life;
Between the cradle and the shroud,
A meteor's flight from cloud to cloud!"
Several hours later, when Mr. Leigh returned to the study, he found
Edna singing some of the minister's favorite Scotch ballads; while
Gertrude rested on the lounge, half propped on her elbow, and leaning
forward to dangle the cord and tassel of her robe de chambre within
reach of an energetic little blue-eyed kitten, which, with its paws in
the air, rolled on the carpet, catching at the silken toy. The
governess left the piano, and resumed her mending of the contents of
the clothes-basket.
In answer to some inquiries of Mr. Hammond, Mr. Leigh gave a brief
account of his travels in Southern Europe; but his manner was
constrained, his thoughts evidently preoccupied. Once his eyes wandered
to the round, rosy, dimpling face of his beautiful child-wife, and he
frowned, bit his lip, and sighed; while his gaze, earnest and
mournfully anxious, returned and dwelt upon the weary but serene
countenance of the orphan.
In the conversation, which had turned accidentally upon philology and
the MSS. of the Vatican, Gertrude took no part; now and then glancing
up at the speakers, she continued her romp with the kitten. At length,
tired of her frolicsome pet, she rose with a half-suppressed yawn, and
sauntered up to her husband's chair. Softly and lovingly her pretty
little pink palms were passed over her husband's darkened brow, and her
fingers drew his hair now on one side, now on the other, while she
peeped over his shoulder to watch the effect of the arrangement.
The caresses were inopportune, her touch annoyed him. He shook it off,
and, stretching out his arm, put her gently but firmly away, saying,
coldly:
"There is a chair, Gertrude."
Edna's eyes looked steadily into his, with an expression of grave,
sorrowful reproof--of expostulation; and the flush deepened on his face
as his eyes fell before her rebuking gaze.
Perhaps the young wife had become accustomed to such rebuffs; at all
events she evinced neither mortification nor surprise, but twirled her
silk tassel vigorously around her finger, and exclaimed:
"Oh, Gordon! have you not forgotten to give Edna that letter, written
by the gentleman we met at Palermo? Edna, he paid your book some
splendid compliments. I fairly clapped my hands at his praises--didn't
I, Gordon?"
Mr. Leigh drew a letter from the inside pocket of his coat, and, as he
gave it to the orphan, said with a touch of bitterness in his tone:
"Pardon my negligence; probably you will find little news in it, as he
is one of your old victims, and you can guess its contents."
The letter was from Sir Roger; and while he expressed great grief at
hearing, through Mr. Manning's notes, that her health was seriously
impaired, he renewed the offer of his hand, and asked permission to
come and plead his suit in person.
As Edna hurriedly glanced over the pages, and put them in her pocket,
Gertrude said gayly, "Shame on you, Gordon! Do you mean to say, or,
rather to insinuate, that all who read Edna's book are victimized?"
He looked at her from under thickening eyebrows, and replied with
undisguised impatience:
"No; your common sense ought to teach you that such was not my meaning
or intention. Edna places no such interpretation on my words."
"Common sense! Oh, Gordon, dearie! how unreasonable you are! Why, you
have told me a thousand times that I had not a particle of common
sense, except on the subject of juleps; and how, then, in the name of
wonder, can you expect me to show any? I never pretended to be a great
shining genius like Edna, whose writings all the world is talking
about. I only want to be wise enough to understand you, dearie, and
make you happy. Gordon, don't you feel any better? What makes your face
so red?"
She went back to his chair, and leaned her lovely head close to his,
while an anxious expression filled her large blue eyes.
Gordon Leigh realized that his marriage was a terrible mistake, which
only death could rectify; but even in his wretchedness he was just,
blaming only himself--exonerating his wife. Had he not wooed the love
of which, already, he was weary? Having deceived her at the altar, was
there justification for his dropping the mask at the hearthstone? Nay,
the skeleton must be no rattling of skull and crossbones to freeze the
blood in the sweet laughing face of the trusting bird.
Now her clinging tenderness, her affectionate humility, upbraided him
as no harsh words could possibly have done. With a smothered sigh he
passed his arm around her, and drew her closer to his side.
"At least my little wife is wise enough to teach her husband to be
ashamed of his petulance."
"And quite wise enough, dear Gertrude, to make him very proud and
happy; for you ought to be able to say with the sweetest singer in all
merry England:
'But I look up and he looks down,
And thus our married eyes can meet;
Unclouded his, and clear of frown,
And gravely sweet.'"
As Edna glanced at the young wife and uttered these words, a mist
gathered in her own eyes, and collecting her sewing utensils she went
to her room to pack her trunk.
During her stay at the parsonage she had not attended service in the
church, because Mr. Hammond was lonely, and her Sabbaths were spent in
reading to him. But her old associates in the choir insisted that,
before she returned to New York, she should sing with them once more.
Thus far she had declined all invitations; but on the morning of the
last day of her visit, the organist called to say that a distinguished
divine, from a distant State, would fill Mr. Hammond's pulpit; and as
the best and leading soprano in the choir was disabled by severe cold,
and could not be present, he begged that Edna would take her place, and
sing a certain solo in the music which he had selected for an opening
piece. Mr. Hammond, who was pardonably proud of his choir, was anxious
that the stranger should be greeted and inspired by fine music, and
urged Edna's compliance with the request.
Reluctantly she consented, and for the first time Duty and Love seemed
to signal a truce, to shake hands over the preliminaries of a treaty
for peace.
As she passed through the churchyard and walked up the steps, where a
group of Sabbath-school children sat talking, her eyes involuntarily
sought the dull brown spot on the marble.
Over it little Herbert Inge had spread his white handkerchief, and
piled thereon his Testament and catechism, laying on the last one of
those gilt-bordered and handsome pictorial cards, containing a verse
from the Scriptures, which are frequently distributed by Sabbath-school
teachers.
Edna stooped and looked at the picture covering the blood-stain. It
represented our Saviour on the Mount, delivering the sermon, and in
golden letters were printed his words:
"Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye
shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to
you again."
The eyes of the Divine Preacher seemed to look into hers, and the
outstretched hand to point directly at her.
She trembled, and hastily kissing the sweet red lips which little
Herbert held up to her, she went in, and up to the gallery.
The congregation assembled slowly, and as almost all the faces were
familiar to Edna, each arrival revived something of the past. Here the
flashing silk flounces of a young belle brushed the straight black
folds of widow's weeds; on the back of one seat was stretched the rough
brown hand of a poor laboring man; on the next lay the dainty fingers
of a matron of wealth and fashion, who had entirely forgotten to draw a
glove over her sparkling diamonds.
In all the splendor of velvet, feathers, and sea-green moire, Mrs.
Montgomery sailed proudly into her pew, convoying her daughter Maud,
who was smiling and whispering to her escort; and just behind them came
a plainly-clad but happy young mechanic, a carpenter, clasping to his
warm, honest heart the arm of his sweet-faced, gentle wife, and holding
the hand of his rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, three-year old boy, who
toddled along, staring at the brilliant pictures on the windows.
When Mr. Leigh and Gertrude entered there was a general stir, a lifting
of heads and twisting of necks, in order to ascertain what new styles
of bonnet, lace, and mantle prevailed in Paris.
A moment after Mrs. Murray walked slowly down the aisle, and Edna's
heart seemed to stand still as she saw Mr. Murray's powerful form. He
stepped forward, and while he opened the door of the pew, and waited
for his mother to seat herself, his face was visible; then he sat down,
closing the door.
The minister entered, and, as he ascended the pulpit, the organ began
to breathe its solemn welcome. When the choir rose and commenced their
chorus, Edna stood silent, with her book in her hand, and her eyes
fixed on the Murrays' pew.
The strains of triumph ceased, the organ only sobbed its sympathy to
the thorn-crowned Christ, struggling along the Via Dolorosa, and the
orphan's quivering lips parted, and she sang her solo.
As her magnificent voice rose and rolled to the arched roof, people
forgot propriety, and turned to look at the singer. She saw Mrs. Murray
start and glance eagerly up at her, and for an instant the grand, pure
voice faltered slightly, as Edna noticed that the mother whispered
something to the son. But he did not turn his proud head, he only
leaned his elbow on the side of the pew next to the aisle, and rested
his temple on his hand.
When the preliminary services ended, and the minister stood up in the
shining pulpit and commenced his discourse, Edna felt that St. Elmo had
at last enlisted angels in his behalf; for the text was contained in
the warning, whose gilded letters hid the blood-spot, "Judge not, that
ye be not judged."
As far as two among his auditory were concerned, the preacher might as
well have addressed his sermon to the mossy slabs, visible through the
windows. Both listened to the text, and neither heard any more. Edna
sat looking down at Mr. Murray's massive, finely-poised head, and she
could see the profile contour of features, regular and dark, as if
carved and bronzed.
During the next half-hour her vivid imagination sketched and painted a
vision of enchantment--of what might have been, if that motionless man
below, there in the crimson-cushioned pew, had only kept his soul from
grievous sins. A vision of a happy, proud, young wife reigning at Le
Bocage, shedding the warm, rosy light of her love over the lonely life
of its master; adding to his strong, clear intellect and ripe
experience, the silver flame of her genius; borrowing from him broader
and more profound views of her race, on which to base her ideal
aesthetic structures; softening, refining his nature, strengthening her
own; helping him to help humanity; loving all good, being good, doing
good; serving and worshipping God together; walking hand and hand with
her husband through earth's wide valley of Baca, with peaceful faces
full of faith, looking heavenward.
"God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these, 'It might have been!'"
At last, with a faint moan, which reached no ear but that of Him who
never slumbers, Edna withdrew her eyes from the spot where Mr. Murray
sat, and raised them toward the pale Christ, whose wan lips seemed to
murmur:
"Be of good cheer! He that overcometh shall inherit all things. What I
do, thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter."
The minister, standing beneath the picture of the Master whom he
served, closed the Bible and ended his discourse by hurling his text as
a thunderbolt at those whose upturned faces watched him:
"Finally, brethren, remember under all circumstances the awful
admonition of Jesus, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged!'"
The organ peals and the doxology were concluded; the benediction fell
like God's dew, alike on sinner and on saint, and amid the solemn
moaning of the gilded pipes, the congregation turned to quit the church.
With both hands pressed over her heart, Edna leaned heavily against the
railing.
"To-morrow I go away for ever. I shall never see his face again in this
world. Oh! I want to look at it once more."
As he stepped into the aisle, Mr. Murray threw his head back slightly,
and his eyes swept up to the gallery and met hers. It was a long,
eager, heart-searching gaze. She saw a countenance more fascinating
than of old; for the sardonic glare had gone, the bitterness, "the
dare-man, dare-brute, dare-devil" expression had given place to a stern
mournfulness, and the softening shadow of deep contrition and manly
sorrow hovered over features where scoffing cynicism had so long
scowled.
The magnetism of St. Elmo's eyes was never more marvellous than when
they rested on the beautiful white face of the woman he loved so well,
whose calm, holy eyes shone like those of an angel, as they looked
sadly down at his. In the mystic violet light with which the rich
stained glass flooded the church, that pallid, suffering face, sublime
in its meekness and resignation, hung above him like one of Perugino's
saints over kneeling mediaeval worshippers. As the moving congregation
bore him nearer to the door, she leaned farther over the mahogany
balustrade, and a snowy crocus which she wore at her throat, snapped
its brittle stem and floated down till it touched his shoulder. He laid
one hand over it, holding it there, and while a prayer burned in his
splendid eyes, hers smiled a melancholy farewell. The crowd swept the
tall form forward, under the arches, beyond the fluted columns of the
gallery, and the long gaze ended.
"Ah! well for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away."