"Worthy? No, no! Unworthy! most unworthy! But was Thomas worthy to tend
the wandering sheep of Him, whom face to face he doubted? Was Peter
worthy to preach the Gospel of Him, whom he had thrice indignantly
denied? Was Paul worthy to become the Apostle of the Gentiles, teaching
the doctrine of Him whose disciples he had persecuted and slaughtered?
If the repentance of Peter and Paul availed to purify their hands and
hearts, and sanctify them to the service of Christ, ah! God knows my
contrition has been bitter and lasting enough to fit me for future
usefulness. Eight months ago, when the desire to become a minister
seized me so tenaciously, I wrestled with it, tried to crush it;
arguing that the knowledge of my past life of sinfulness would prevent
the world from trusting my professions. But those who even slightly
understand my character, must know that I have always been too utterly
indifferent to, too unfortunately contemptuous of public opinion, to
stoop to any deception in order to conciliate it. Moreover, the world
will realize that in a mere worldly point of view, I can possibly hope
to gain nothing by this step. If I were poor, I might be accused of
wanting the loaves and fishes of the profession; if unknown and
ambitious, of seeking eminence and popularity. But when a man of my
wealth and social position, after spending half of his life in
luxurious ease and sinful indulgence, voluntarily subjects himself to
the rigid abstemiousness and self-sacrificing requirements of a
ministerial career, he can not be suspected of hypocrisy. After all,
sir, I care not for the discussion, of nine days' gossip and wonder,
the gibes and comments my course may occasion. I am hearkening to the
counsel of my conscience; I am obeying the dictates of my heart.
Feeling that my God accepts me, it matters little that men may reject
me. My remorse, my repentance, has been inexpressibly bitter; but the
darkness has passed away, and to-day, thank God! I can pray with all
the fervor and faith of my boyhood, when I knew that I was at peace
with my Maker. Oblivion of the past I do not expect, and perhaps should
not desire. I shall always wear my melancholy memories of sin, as
Musselmen wear their turban or pall--as a continual memento of death.
Because I have proved so fully the inadequacy of earthly enjoyments to
satisfy the demands of a soul; because I tried the alluring pleasures
of sin, and was satiated, ah! utterly sickened, I turned with panting
eagerness to the cool, quiet peace which reigns over the life of a true
Christian pastor. I want neither fame nor popularity, but peace! peace
I must have! I have hunted the world over and over; I have sought it
everywhere else, and now, thank God! I feel that it is descending
slowly, slowly, but surely, upon my lonely, long-tortured heart. Thank
God! I have found peace after much strife and great weariness--"
Mr. Murray could no longer control his voice; and as he stood leaning
against the mantelpiece at the parsonage, he dropped his head on his
hand.
"St. Elmo, the purity of your motives will never be questioned, for
none who knows you could believe you capable of dissembling in this
matter; and my heart can scarcely contain its joy when I look forward
to your future, so bright with promise, so full of usefulness. The
marked change in your manner during the past two years has prepared
this community for the important step you are to take to-day, and your
influence with young men will be incalculable. Once your stern
bitterness rendered you an object of dread; now I find that you are
respected, and people here watch your conduct with interest, and even
with anxiety. Ah, St. Elmo, I never imagined earth held as much pure
happiness as is my portion to-day. To see you one of God's anointed! To
see you ministering in the temple! Oh! to know that when I am gone to
rest you will take my place, guard my flock, do your own work and poor
Murray's, and finish mine! This, this is indeed the crowning blessing
of my old age."
For some minutes, Mr. Hammond sobbed; and lifting his face, Mr. Murray
answered:
"As I think of the coming years consecrated to Christ, passed
peacefully in endeavoring to atone for the injury and suffering I have
inflicted on my fellow-creatures; oh! as the picture of a calm, useful,
holy future rises before me, I feel indeed that I am unworthy, most
unworthy of my peace; but, thank God!
'Oh! I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set;
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.'"
It was a beautiful Sabbath morning, just one year after Edna's
departure, and the church was crowded to its utmost capacity, for
people had come for many miles around to witness a ceremony, the
announcement of which had given rise to universal comment. As the hour
approached for the ordination of St. Elmo Murray to the ministry of
Jesus Christ, even the doors were filled with curious spectators; and
when Mr. Hammond and St. Elmo walked down the aisle, and the old man
seated himself in a chair within the altar, there was a general stir in
the congregation.
The officiating minister had come from a distant city to perform a
ceremony of more than usual interest; and when he stood up in the
pulpit, and the organ thundered through the arches, St. Elmo bowed his
head on his hand, and sat thus during the hour that ensued.
The ordination sermon was solemn and eloquent, and preached from the
text in Romans:
"For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free from righteousness.
But now being made free from sin, and become servants to God, ye have
your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life."
Then the minister, having finished his discourse, came down before the
altar and commenced the services; but Mr. Murray sat motionless, with
his countenance concealed by his hand. Mr. Hammond approached and
touched him, and, as he rose, led him to the altar, and presented him
as a candidate for ordination.
There, before the shining marble pulpit which he had planned and built
in the early years of his life, for the idol of his youth, stood St.
Elmo; and the congregation, especially those of his native village,
looked with involuntary admiration and pride at the erect, powerful
form, clad in its suit of black--at the nobly proportioned head, where
gray locks were visible.
"But if there be any of you who knoweth any impediment or crime, for
the which he ought not to be received into this holy ministry, let him
come forth, in the name of God, and show what the crime or impediment
is."
The preacher paused, the echo of his words died away, and perfect
silence reigned. Suddenly St. Elmo raised his eyes from the railing of
the altar, and, turning his face slightly, looked through the eastern
window at the ivy-draped vault where slept Murray and Annie. The world
was silent, but conscience and the dead accused him. An expression of
intolerable pain crossed his handsome features, then his hands folded
themselves tightly together on the top of the marble balustrade, and he
looked appealingly up to the pale Jesus staggering under his cross.
At that instant a spotless white pigeon from the belfry found its way
into the church through the open doors, circled once around the
building, fluttered against the window, hiding momentarily the crown of
thorns, and, frightened and confused, fell upon the fluted pillar of
the pulpit.
An electric thrill ran through the congregation; and as the minister
resumed the services, he saw on St. Elmo's face a light, a great joy,
such as human countenances rarely wear this side of the grave.
When Mr. Murray knelt and the ordaining hands were laid upon his head,
a sob was heard from the pew where his mother sat, and the voice of the
preacher faltered as he delivered the Bible to the kneeling man, saying:
"Take thou authority to preach the word of God, and to administer the
holy sacraments in the congregation."
There were no dry eyes in the entire assembly, save two that looked
out, coldly blue, from the pew where Mrs. Powell sat like a statue,
between her daughter and Gordon Leigh.
Mr. Hammond tottered across the altar, and knelt down close to Mr.
Murray; and many who knew the history of the pastor's family, wept as
the gray head fell on the broad shoulder of St. Elmo, whose arm was
thrown around the old man's form, and the ordaining minister, with
tears rolling over his face, extended his hands in benediction above
them.
"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts
and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son Jesus Christ
our Lord; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and
the Holy Ghost, be among you, and remain with you alway."
And all hearts and lips present whispered "Amen!" and the organ and the
choir broke forth in a grand "Gloria in excelsis."
Standing there at the chancel, purified, consecrated henceforth
unreservedly to Christ, Mr. Murray looked so happy, so noble, so worthy
of his high calling, that his proud, fond mother thought his face was
fit for an archangel's wings.
Many persons who had known him in his boyhood, came up with tears in
their eyes, and wrung his hand silently. At last Huldah pointed to the
white pigeon, that was now beating its wings against the gilded pipes
of the organ, and said, in that singularly sweet, solemn, hesitating
tone, with which children approach sacred things:
"Oh, Mr. Murray! when it fell on the pulpit, it nearly took my breath
away, for I almost thought it was the Holy Ghost."
Tears, which till then he had bravely kept back, dripped over his face,
as he stooped and whispered to the little orphan:
"Huldah, the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, came indeed; but it was not
visible, it is here in my heart."
The congregation dispersed. Mrs. Murray and the preacher and Huldah
went to the carriage; and, leaning on Mr. Murray's arm, Mr. Hammond
turned to follow, but observing that the church was empty, the former
said:
"After a little I will come."
The old man walked on, and Mr. Murray went back and knelt, resting his
head against the beautiful glittering balustrade, within which he hoped
to officiate through the remaining years of his earthly career.
Once the sexton, who was waiting to lock up the church, looked in, saw
the man praying alone there at the altar, and softly stole away.
When St. Elmo came out, the churchyard seemed deserted; but as he
crossed it, going homeward, a woman rose from one of the tombstones and
stood before him--the yellow-haired Jezebel, with sapphire eyes and
soft, treacherous red lips, who had goaded him to madness and blasted
the best years of his life.
At sight of her he recoiled, as if a cobra had started up in his path.
"St. Elmo, my beloved! in the name of other days stop and hear me. By
the memory of our early love, I entreat you!"
She came close to him, and the alabaster face was marvelously beautiful
in its expression of penitential sweetness.
"St. Elmo, can you never forgive me for the suffering I caused you in
my giddy girlhood?"
She took his hand and attempted to raise it to her lips; but shaking
off her touch, he stepped back, and steadily they looked in each
other's eyes.
"Agnes, I forgive you. May God pardon your sins, as He has pardoned
mine!"
He turned away, but she seized his coat-sleeve and threw herself before
him, standing with both hands clasping his arm.
"If you mean what you say, there is happiness yet in store for us. Oh,
St. Elmo! how often have I longed to come and lay my head down on your
bosom, and tell you all. But you were so stern and harsh I was afraid.
To-day when I saw you melted, when the look of your boyhood came
dancing back to your dear eyes, I was encouraged to hope that your
heart had softened also toward one, who so long possessed it. Is there
hope for your poor Agnes? Hope that the blind, silly girl, who,
ignorant of the value of the treasure, slighted and spurned it, may
indeed be pardoned, when, as a woman realizing her folly, and sensible
at last of the nobility of a nature she once failed to appreciate, she
comes and says--what it is so hard for a woman to say--'Take me back to
your heart, gather me up in your arms, as in the olden days,
because--because I love you now; because only your love can make me
happy.' St. Elmo, we are no longer young; but believe me when I tell
you that at last--at last--your own Agnes loves you as she never loved
any one, even in her girlhood. Once I preferred my cousin Murray to
you; but think how giddy I must have been, when I could marry before a
year had settled the sod on his grave? I did not love my husband, but I
married him for the same reason that I would have married you then. And
yet for that there is some palliation. It was to save my father from
disgrace that I sacrificed myself; for money entrusted to his
keeping--money belonging to his orphan ward--had been used by him in a
ruinous speculation, and only prompt repayment could prevent exposure.
Remember I was so young, so vain, so thoughtless then! St. Elmo, pity
me! love me! take me back to your heart! God is my witness that I do
love you entirely now! Dearest, say, 'Agnes, I will forgive all, and
trust you and love you as in the days long past.'"
She tried to put her arms up around his neck and to rest her head on
his shoulder; but he resisted and put her at arm's length from him.
Holding her there, he looked at her with a cold scorn in his eyes, and
a heavy shadow darkening the brow that five minutes before had been so
calm, so bright.
"Agnes, how dare you attempt to deceive me after all that has passed
between us? Oh, woman! In the name of all true womanhood I could blush
for you!"
She struggled to free herself, to get closer to him, but his stern
grasp was relentless; and as tears poured down her cheeks, she clasped
her hands and sobbed out:
"You do not believe that I really love you! Oh! do not look at me so
harshly! I am not deceiving you; as I hope for pardon and rest for my
soul--as I hope to see my father's face in heaven--I am not deceiving
you! I do--I do love you! When I spoke to you about Gertrude, it cost
me a dreadful pang; but I thought you loved her because she resembled
me; and for my child's sake I crushed my own hopes--I wanted, if
possible, to save her from suffering. But you only upbraided and heaped
savage sarcasms upon me. Oh, St. Elmo! if you could indeed see my poor
heart, you would not look so cruelly cold. You ought to know that I am
terribly in earnest when I can stoop to beg for the ruins of a heart,
which in its freshness I once threw away, and trampled on."
He had seen her weep before, when it suited her purpose, and he only
smiled and answered: "Yes, Agnes, you ruined and trampled it in the
mire of sin; but I have rebuilt it, and, by the mercy of God, I hope I
have purified it. Look you, woman! when you overturned the temple, you
crumbled your own image that was set up there; and I long, long ago
swept out and gave to the hungry winds the despised dust of that broken
idol, and over my heart you can reign no more! The only queen it has
known since that awful night twenty-three years ago, when my faith,
hope, charity were all strangled in an instant by the velvet hand I had
kissed in my doting fondness--the only queen my heart has acknowledged
since then, is one who, in her purity soars like an angel above you and
me, and her dear name is--Edna Earl."
"Edna Earl!--a puritanical fanatic! Nay, a Pharisee! A cold prude, a
heartless blue! A woman with some brain and no feeling, who loves
nothing but her own fame, and has no sympathy with your nature. St.
Elmo, are you insane! Did you not see that letter from Estelle to your
mother, stating that she, Edna, would certainly be married in February
to the celebrated Mr. Manning, who was then on his way to Rome to meet
her? Did you see that letter?"
"I did."
"And discredit it? Blindness, madness, equal to my own in the days gone
by! Edna Earl exists no longer; she was married a month ago. Here, read
for yourself, or you will believe that I fabricate the whole."
She held a newspaper before his eyes and he saw a paragraph, marked
with a circle of ink, "Marriage in Literary Circles":
"The very reliable correspondent of the New York--writes from Rome that
the Americans now in that city are on the qui vive concerning a
marriage announced to take place on Thursday next at the residence of
the American Minister. The very distinguished parties are Miss Edna
Earl, the gifted and exceedingly popular young authoress, whose works
have given her an enviable reputation, even on this side of the
Atlantic, and Mr. Douglass G. Manning, the well-known and able editor
of the--Magazine. The happy pair will start, immediately after the
ceremony, on a tour through Greece and the Holy Land."
Mr. Murray opened the paper, glanced at the date, and his swarthy face
paled as he put his hands over his eyes.
Mrs. Powell came nearer, and once more touched his hand; but, with a
gesture of disgust, he pushed her aside.
"Away! Not a word--not one word more! You are not worthy to take my
darling's name upon your lips! She may be Manning's wife--God forbid
it!--or she may be in her grave. I have lost her, I know; but if I
never see her dear angel face again in this world, it will be in
consequence of my sins, and of yours; and with God's help I mean to
live out the remainder of my days, so that at last I shall meet her in
eternity! Leave me, Agnes! Do not make me forget the vows I have to-day
taken upon myself, in the presence of the world and of my Maker. In
future, keep out of my path, which will never cross yours; do not rouse
the old hate toward you, which I am faithfully striving to overcome.
The first time I went to the communion-table, after the lapse of all
those dreary years of sin and desperation, I asked myself, 'Have I a
right to the sacrament of the Lord's Supper?--can I face God and say I
forgive Agnes Powell?' Finally, after a hard struggle, I said, from the
depths of my heart, 'Even as I need and hope for forgiveness myself, I
do fully forgive her.' Mark you, it was my injuries that I pardoned,
your treachery that I forgave. But recollect there is a mournful truth
in those words--THERE IS NO PARDON FOR DESECRATED IDEALS! Once, in the
flush of my youth, I selected you as the beau ideal of beautiful,
perfect womanhood; but you fell from that lofty pedestal where my
ardent, boyish love set you for worship, and you dragged me down, down,
almost beyond the pale of God's mercy! I forgive all my wrongs, but
'take you back, love you?' Ah! I can never love anyone, I never, even
in my boyhood, loved you, as I love my pure darling, my own Edna! Her
memory is all I have to cheer me in my lonely work. I do not believe
that she is married; no, no, but she is in her grave. For many days
past I have been oppressed by a horrible presentiment that she has gone
to her rest in Christ--that the next steamer will bring me tidings of
her death. Do not touch me, Agnes! If there be any truth in what you
have to-day asserted so solemnly (though I can not believe it, for if
you ridiculed and disliked me in my noble youth, how can you love the
same man in the melancholy wreck of his hopes?), if there be a shadow
of truth in your words, you are indeed to be pitied. Ah! you and I have
learned at a terrible price the deceitfulness of riches, the hollowness
of this world's pleasures; and both have writhed under the poisonous
fangs that always dart from the dregs of the cup of sin, which you and
I have drained. Experience must have taught you, also, what I was so
long in learning--the utter hopelessness of peace for heart and soul
save only through that religion, which so far subdues even my sinful,
vindictive, satanic nature, that I can say to you--you who blasted all
my earthly happiness--I forgive you my sufferings, and hope that God
will give you that pardon and comfort which after awful conflicts I
have found at last. Several times you have thrust yourself into my
presence; but if there remains any womanly delicacy in your nature you
will avoid me henceforth when I tell you that I loath the sight of one
whose unwomanliness stabbed my trust in womanhood, and sunk me so low
that I lost Edna Earl. Agnes, go yonder--where I have spent so many
hours of agony--yonder to the graves of your victims as well as mine.
Go down on your knees yonder, and pray for yourself, and may God help
you!"
He pointed to the gray vault and the slab that covered Annie and Murray
Hammond; and disengaging her fingers, which still clutched his sleeve,
he turned quickly and walked away.
Her mournful eyes, strained wide and full of tears, followed him till
his form was no longer visible; and sinking down on the
monument--whence she had risen at his approach--she shrouded her fair,
delicate features, and rocked herself to and fro.