Immediately after her return to New York, Edna resumed her studies with
renewed energy, and found her physical strength recruited and her mind
invigorated by repose. Her fondness for Hattie induced her to remain
with Mrs. Andrews in the capacity of governess, though her position in
the family had long ceased to resemble in any respect that of a
hireling. Three hours of each day were devoted to the education of the
little girl, who, though vastly inferior in mental endowments to her
brother, was an engaging and exceedingly affectionate child, fully
worthy of the love which her gifted governess lavished upon her. The
remainder of her time Edna divided between study, music, and an
extensive correspondence, which daily increased.
She visited little, having no leisure and less inclination to fritter
away her morning in gossip and chit-chat; but she set apart one evening
in each week for the reception of her numerous kind friends, and of all
strangers who desired to call upon her. These reunions were brilliant
and delightful, and it was considered a privilege to be present at
gatherings where eminent men and graceful, refined, cultivated
Christian women assembled to discuss ethical and aesthetic topics,
which all educated Americans are deemed capable of comprehending.
Edna's abhorrence of double entendre and of the fashionable sans souci
style of conversation, which was tolerated by many who really disliked
but had not nerve enough to frown it down, was not a secret to any one
who read her writings or attended her receptions. Without obtruding her
rigid views of true womanly delicacy and decorum upon any one, her
deportment under all circumstances silently published her opinion of
certain latitudinarian expressions prevalent in society.
She saw that the growing tendency to free and easy manners and
colloquial license was rapidly destroying all reverence for womanhood;
was levelling the distinction between ladies' parlors and gentlemen's
clubrooms; was placing the sexes on a platform of equality which was
dangerous to feminine delicacy, that God-built bulwark of feminine
purity and of national morality.
That time-honored maxim, "Honi soit qui mal y pense," she found had
been distorted from its original and noble significance, and was now a
mere convenient India-rubber cloak, stretched at will to cover and
excuse allusions which no really modest woman could tolerate.
Consequently, when she heard it flippantly pronounced in palliation of
some gross offense against delicacy, she looked more searchingly into
the characters of the indiscreet talkers, and quietly intimated to them
that their presence was not desired at her receptions. Believing that
modesty and purity were twin sisters, and that vulgarity and vice were
rarely if ever divorced, Edna sternly refused to associate with those
whose laxity of manners indexed, in her estimation, a corresponding
laxity of morals. Married belles and married beaux she shunned and
detested, regarding them as a disgrace to their families, as a blot
upon all noble womanhood and manhood, and as the most dangerous foes to
the morality of the community, in which they unblushingly violated
hearthstone statutes and the venerable maxims of social decorum.
The ostracized banded in wrath, and ridiculed her antiquated prudery;
but knowing that the pure and noble mothers, wives, and daughters,
honored and trusted her, Edna gave no heed to raillery and envious
malice, but resolutely obeyed the promptings of her womanly intuitions.
Painful experience had taught her the imprudence, the short-sighted
policy of working until very late at night; and in order to take due
care of her health, she wisely resorted to a different system of study,
which gave her more sleep, and allowed her some hours of daylight for
her literary labors.
In the industrial pursuits of her own sex she was intensely interested,
and spared no trouble in acquainting herself with the statistics of
those branches of employment already open to them; consequently she was
never so happy as when the recipient of letters from the poor women of
the land, who thanked her for the words of hope, advice, and
encouragement which she constantly addressed to them.
While the world honored her, she had the precious assurance that her
Christian countrymen loved and trusted her. She felt the painful need
of Mr. Manning's society, and even his frequent letters did not fully
satisfy her; but as he had resolved to remain in Europe, at least for
some years, she bore the irreparable loss of his counsel and sympathy,
as she bore all other privations, bravely and quietly.
Now and then alarming symptoms of the old suffering warned her of the
uncertainty of her life; and after much deliberation, feeling that her
time was limited, she commenced another book.
Mr. Hammond wrote begging her to come to him, as he was now hopelessly
infirm and confined to his room; but she shrank from a return to the
village so intimately associated with events which she wished if
possible to forget; and, though she declined the invitation, she proved
her affection for her venerable teacher, by sending him every day a
long, cheerful letter.
Since her departure from the parsonage, Mrs. Murray had never written
to her; but through Mr. Hammond's and Huldah's letters, Edna learned
that Mr. Murray was the officiating minister in the church which he had
built in his boyhood; and now and then the old pastor painted pictures
of life at Le Bocage, that brought happy tears to the orphan's eyes.
She heard from time to time of the good the new minister was
accomplishing among the poor; of the beneficial influence he exerted,
especially over the young men of the community; of the charitable
institutions to which he was devoting a large portion of his fortune;
of the love and respect, the golden opinions he was winning from those
whom he had formerly estranged by his sarcastic bitterness.
While Edna fervently thanked God for this most wonderful change, she
sometimes repeated exultingly:
"Man-like is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave!"
One darling rose-hued dream of her life was to establish a free-school
and circulating library in the village of Chattanooga; and keeping this
hope ever in view, she had denied herself all superfluous luxuries, and
jealously hoarded her savings.
She felt now that, should she become an invalid, and incapable of
writing or teaching, the money made by her books, which Mr. Andrews had
invested very judiciously, would at least supply her with the
necessities of life.
One evening she held her weekly reception as usual, though she had
complained of not feeling quite well that day.
A number of carriages stood before Mrs. Andrews's door and many friends
who laughed and talked to the governess little dreamed that it was the
last time they would spend an evening together in her society. The
pleasant hours passed swiftly; Edna had never conversed more
brilliantly, and the auditors thought her voice was richer and sweeter
than ever, as she sang the last song and rose from the piano.
The guests took their departure--the carriages rolled away.
Mrs. Andrews ran up to her room, and Edna paused in the brilliantly
lighted parlors to read a note, which had been handed to her during the
evening.
Standing under the blazing chandelier, the face and figure of this
woman could not fail to excite interest in all who gazed upon her.
She was dressed in plain black silk, which exactly fitted her form, and
in her hair glowed clusters of scarlet geranium flowers. A spray of red
fuchsia was fastened by the beautiful stone cameo that confined her
lace collar; and, save the handsome gold bands on her wrists, she wore
no other ornaments.
Felix had given her these bracelets as a Christmas present, and after
his death she never took them off; for inside he had his name and hers
engraved, and between them the word "Mizpah."
To-night the governess was very weary, and the fair sweet face wore its
old childish expression of mingled hopelessness, and perfect patience,
and indescribable repose. As she read, the tired look passed away, and
over her pallid features, so daintily sculptured, stole a faint glow,
such as an ivory Niobe might borrow from the fluttering crimson folds
of silken shroudings. The peaceful lips stirred also and the low tone
was full of pathos as she said:
"How very grateful I ought to be. How much I have to make me happy, to
encourage me to work diligently and faithfully. How comforting it is to
feel that parents have sufficient confidence in me to be willing to
commit their children to my care. What more can I wish? My cup is
brimmed with blessings. Ah! why am I not entirely happy?"
The note contained the signature of six wealthy gentlemen, who
requested her acceptance of a tasteful and handsome house, on condition
that she would consent to undertake the education of their daughters,
and permit them to pay her a liberal salary.
It was a flattering tribute to the clearness of her intellect, the
soundness of her judgment, the extent of her acquirements, and the
purity of her heart.
While she could not accede to the proposition, she appreciated most
gratefully the generosity and good opinion of those who made it.
Twisting the note between her fingers, her eyes fell on the carpet, and
she thought of all her past; of the sorrows, struggles, and
heart-aches, the sleepless nights and weary, joyless days--first of
adverse, then of favorable criticism; of toiling, hoping, dreading,
praying; and now, in the peaceful zenith of her triumph, popularity,
and usefulness, she realized
"That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast,
In purple distance fair."
The note fluttered to the floor, the hands folded themselves together,
and she raised her eyes to utter an humble, fervent "Thank God!" But
the words froze on her lips; for as she looked up, she saw Mr. Murray
standing a few feet from her.
"God has pardoned all my sins, and accepted me as a laborer worthy to
enter His vineyard. Is Edna Earl more righteous than the Lord she
worships?"
His face was almost as pale as hers, and his voice trembled as he
extended his arms toward her.
She stood motionless, looking up at him with eyes that brightened until
their joyful radiance seemed indeed unearthly; and the faint, delicate
blush on her cheeks deepened and burned, as with a quivering cry of
gladness that told volumes, she hid her face in her hands.
He came nearer, and the sound of his low, mellow voice thrilled her
heart as no other music had ever done.
"Edna, have you a right to refuse me forgiveness, when the blood of
Christ has purified me from the guilt of other years?"
She trembled and said brokenly:
"Mr. Murray--you never wronged me--and I have nothing to forgive."
"Do you still believe me an unprincipled hypocrite?"
"Oh! no, no, no!"
"Do you believe that my repentance has been sincere, and acceptable to
my insulted God? Do you believe that I am now as faithfully endeavoring
to serve Him, as a remorseful man possibly can?"
"I hope so, Mr. Murray."
"Edna, can you trust me now?"
Some seconds elapsed before she answered, and then the words were
scarcely audible.
"I trust you."
"Thank God!"
There was a brief pause, and she heard a heavily-drawn sigh escape him.
"Edna, it is useless to tell you how devotedly I love you, for you have
known that for years; and yet you have shown my love no mercy. But
perhaps if you could realize how much I need your help in my holy work,
how much more good I could accomplish in the world if you were with me,
you might listen, without steeling yourself against me, as you have so
long done. Can you, will you trust me fully? Can you be a minister's
wife, and aid him as only you can? Oh, my darling, my darling! I never
expect to be worthy of you! But you can make me less unworthy! My own
darling, come to me."
He stood within two feet of her, but he was--too humble? Nay, nay, too
proud to touch her without permission.
Her hands fell from her crimson cheeks, and she looked up at the
countenance of her king.
In her fond eyes he seemed noble and sanctified, and worthy of all
confidence; and as he opened his arms once more, she glided into them
and laid her head on his shoulder, whispering:
"Oh! I trust you! I trust you fully!"
Standing in the close, tender clasp of his strong arms, she listened to
a narration of his grief and loneliness, his hopes and fears, his
desolation and struggles and prayers during their long separation. Then
for the first time she learned that he had come more than once to New
York, solely to see her, having exacted a promise from Mr. Manning that
he would not betray his presence in the city. He had followed her at a
distance as she wandered with the children through the Park; and, once
in the ramble, stood so close to her that he put out his hand and
touched her dress. Mr. Manning had acquainted him with all that had
ever passed between them on the subject of his unsuccessful suit; and
during her sojourn in Europe, had kept him regularly advised of the
state of her health.
At last, when Mr. Murray bent his head to press his lips again to hers,
he exclaimed in the old, pleading tone that had haunted her memory for
years:
"Edna, with all your meekness you are wilfully proud. You tell me you
trust me, and you nestle your dear head here on my shoulder--why won't
you say what you know so well I am longing, hungering to hear? Why
won't you say, 'St. Elmo, I love you'?"
The glowing face was only pressed closer.
"My little darling!"
"Oh, Mr. Murray! could I be here."
"Well, my stately Miss Earl! I am waiting most respectfully to allow
you an opportunity of expressing yourself."
No answer.
He laughed as she had heard him once before, when he took her in his
arms and dared her to look into his eyes.
"When I heard your books extolled; when I heard your praises from men,
women, and children; when I could scarcely pick up a paper without
finding some mention of your name; when I came here to-night, and paced
the pavement, waiting for your admirers to leave the house; whenever
and wherever I have heard your dear name uttered, I have been
exultingly proud! For I knew that the heart of the people's pet was
mine! I gloried in the consciousness which alone strengthened and
comforted me, that, despite all that the public could offer you,
despite the adulation of other men, and despite my utter unworthiness,
my own darling was true to me! that you never loved any one but S. Elmo
Murray! And as God reigns above us, His happy world holds no man so
grateful, so happy, so proud as I am! No man so resolved to prove
himself worthy of his treasure! Edna, looking back across the dark
years that have gone so heavily over my head, and comparing you, my
pure, precious darling, with that woman, whom in my boyhood I selected
for my life-companion, I know not whether I am most humble, or
grateful, or proud!
'Ah I who am I, that God hath saved
Me from the doom I did desire,
And crossed the lot myself had craved
To set me higher?
What have I done that he should bow
From heaven to choose a wife for me?
And what deserved, he should endow
My home with THEE?'"
* * * * * * *
As Mr. Hammond was not able to take the fatiguing journey North, and
Edna would not permit any one else to perform her marriage ceremony,
she sent Mr. Murray home without her, promising to come to the
parsonage as early as possible.
Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were deeply pained by the intelligence of her
approaching departure, and finally consented to accompany her on her
journey.
The last day of the orphan's sojourn in New York was spent at the quiet
spot where Felix slept his last sleep; and it caused her keen grief to
bid good-bye to his resting-place, which was almost as dear to her as
the grave of her grandfather. Their affection had been so warm, so
sacred, that she clung fondly to his memory; and it was not until she
reached the old village depot, where carriages were waiting for the
party, that the shadow of that day entirely left her countenance.
In accordance with her own request, Edna did not see Mr. Murray again
until the hour appointed for their marriage.
It was a bright, beautiful afternoon, warm with sunshine, when she
permitted Mrs. Murray to lead her into the study where the party had
assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, Hattie, Huldah, and the white-haired
pastor, were all there, and when Edna entered, Mr. Murray advanced to
meet her, and received her hand from his mother.
The orphan's eyes were bent to the floor, and never once lifted, even
when the trembling voice of her beloved pastor pronounced her St. Elmo
Murray's wife. The intense pallor of her face frightened Mrs. Andrews,
who watched her with suspended breath, and once moved eagerly toward
her. Mr. Murray felt her lean more heavily against him during the
ceremony; and, now turning to take her in his arms, he saw that her
eyelashes had fallen on her cheeks--she had lost all consciousness of
what was passing.
Two hours elapsed before she recovered fully from the attack; and when
the blood showed itself again in lips that were kissed so repeatedly,
Mr. Murray lifted her from the sofa in the study, and passing his arm
around her, said:
"To-day I snap the fetters of your literary bondage. There shall be no
more books written! No more study, no more toil, no more anxiety, no
more heartaches! And that dear public you love so well, must even help
itself, and whistle for a new pet. You belong solely to me now, and I
shall take care of the life you have nearly destroyed in your
inordinate ambition. Come, the fresh air will revive you."
They stood a moment under the honeysuckle arch over the parsonage gate,
where the carriage was waiting to take them to Le Bocage, and Mr.
Murray asked:
"Are you strong enough to go to the church?"
"Yes, sir; the pain has all passed away. I am perfectly well again."
They crossed the street, and he took her in his arms and carried her up
the steps, and into the grand, solemn church, where the soft, holy,
violet light from the richly-tinted glass streamed over gilded
organ-pipes and sculptured columns.
Neither Edna nor St. Elmo spoke as they walked down the aisle; and in
perfect silence both knelt before the shining altar, and only God heard
their prayers of gratitude.
After some moments Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Edna's, and
holding it in his on the balustrade, he prayed aloud, asking God's
blessing on their marriage, and fervently dedicating all their future
to His work.
The hectic flush of the dying day was reflected on the window high
above the altar, and, burning through the red mantle of the Christ,
fell down upon the marble shrine like sacred, sacrificial fire.
Edna felt as if her heart could not hold all its measureless joy. It
seemed a delightful dream to see Mr. Murray kneeling at her side; to
hear his voice earnestly consecrating their lives to the service of
Jesus Christ.
She knew from the tremor in his tone, and the tears in his eyes, that
his dedication was complete; and now to be his companion through all
the remaining years of their earthly pilgrimage, to be allowed to help
him and love him, to walk heavenward with her hand in his; this--this
was the crowning glory and richest blessing of her life.
When his prayer ended, she laid her head down on the altar-railing, and
sobbed like a child.
In the orange glow of a wintry sunset they came out and sat down on the
steps, while a pair of spotless white pigeons perched on the
blood-stain; and Mr. Murray put his arm around Edna, and drew her face
to his bosom.
"Darling, do you remember that once, in the dark days of my reckless
sinfulness, I asked you one night, in the library at Le Bocage, if you
had no faith in me? And you repeated so vehemently, 'None, Mr. Murray!'"
"Oh, sir! do not think of it. Why recur to what is so painful and so
long past? Forgive those words and forget them! Never was more implicit
faith, more devoted affection, given to any human being than I give now
to you, Mr. Murray; you, who are my first and my last and my only love."
She felt his arm tighten around her waist, as he bowed his face to hers.
"Forgive? Ah, my darling! do you recollect also that I told you then
that the time would come when your dear lips would ask pardon for what
they uttered that night, and that when that hour arrived I would take
my revenge? My wife! my pure, noble, beautiful wife! give me my
revenge, for I cry with the long-banished Roman:
'Oh! a kiss--long as my exile
Sweet as my revenge!'"
He put his hand under her chin, drew the lips to his, and kissed them
repeatedly.
Down among the graves, in the brown grass and withered leaves, behind a
tall shaft, around which coiled a carved marble serpent with hooded
head-there, amid the dead, crouched a woman's figure, with a stony face
and blue chatoyant eyes, that glared with murderous hate at the sweet
countenance of the happy bride. When St. Elmo tenderly kissed the pure
lips of his wife, Agnes Powell smothered a savage cry, and Nemesis was
satisfied as the wretched woman fell forward on the grass, sweeping her
yellow hair over her eyes, to shut out the vision that maddened her.
Then and there, for the first time, as she sat enfolded by her
husband's arm, Edna felt that she could thank him for the monument
erected over her grandfather's grave.
The light faded slowly in the west, the pigeons ceased their fluttering
about the belfry, and as he turned to quit the church, so dear to both,
Mr. Murray stretched his hand toward the ivy-clad vault, and said
solemnly:
"I throw all mournful years behind me; and, by the grace of God, our
new lives, commencing this hallowed day, shall make noble amends for
the wasted past. Loving each other, aiding each other, serving Christ,
through whose atonement alone I have been saved from eternal ruin. To
Thy merciful guidance, O Father! we commit our future."
Edna looked reverently up at his beaming countenance, whence the
shadows of hate and scorn had long since passed; and, as his splendid
eyes came back to hers, reading in her beautiful, pure face all her
love and confidence and happy hope, he drew her closer to his bosom,
and laid his dark cheek on hers, saying fondly and proudly:
"My wife, my life. Oh! we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so through those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows. My hopes and thine are one;
Accomplish thou my manhood, and thyself,
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me."
THE END.