"Mrs. Powell and her daughter to see Miss Estelle and Miss Edna."
"Why did you not say we were at dinner?" cried Mrs. Murray, impatiently, darting an angry glance at the servant.
"I did, ma'am, but they said they would wait."
As Estelle folded up her napkin and slipped it into the silver ring, she looked furtively at St. Elmo, who, holding up a bunch of purple grapes, said in an indifferent tone to his mother:
"The vineyards of Axarquia show nothing more perfect. This cluster might challenge comparison with those from which Red Hermitage is made, and the seeds of which are said to have been brought from Schiraz. Even on the sunny slopes of Cyprus and Naxos I found no finer grapes than these. A propos! I want a basketful this afternoon. Henry, tell old Simon to gather them immediately."
"Pray what use have you for them? I am sure the courteous idea of sending them as a present never could have forced an entrance into your mind, much less have carried the outworks of your heart!"
As his cousin spoke she came to the back of his chair and leaned over his shoulder.
"I shall go out on the terrace and renew the obsolete Dionysia, shouting 'Evoe! Eleleus!' I shall crown and pelt my marble Bacchus yonder with the grapes till his dainty sculptured limbs are bathed in their purple sacrificial blood. What other use could I possibly have for them?"
He threw his head back and added something in a lower tone, at whichEstelle laughed, and put up her red, full lip.
Mrs. Murray frowned, and said sternly:
"If you intend to see those persons, I advise you to do so promptly."
Her niece moved toward the door, but glanced over her shoulder.
"I presume Gertrude expects to see Edna, as she asked for her."
The orphan had been watching Mr. Murray's face, but could detect no alteration in its expression, save a brief gleam as of triumph when the visitors were announced. Rising, she approached Mrs. Murray, whose clouded brow betokened more than ordinary displeasure, and whispered:
"Gertrude is exceedingly anxious to see the house and grounds; have I your permission to show her over the place? She is particularly anxious to see the deer."
"Of course, if she requests it; but their effrontery in coming here caps the climax of all the impudence I ever heard of. Have as little to say as possible."
Edna went to the parlor, leaving mother and son together.
Mrs. Powell had laid aside her mourning garments and wore a dress of blue muslin which heightened her beauty, and as the orphan looked from her to Gertrude she found it difficult to decide who was the loveliest. After a few desultory remarks she rose, saying:
"As you have repeatedly expressed a desire to examine the park and hothouses, I will show you the way this afternoon."
"Take care, my love, that you do not fatigue yourself," were Mrs. Powell's low, tenderly spoken words as her daughter rose to leave the room.
Edna went first to the greenhouse, and though her companion chattered ceaselessly, she took little interest in her exclamations of delight, and was conjecturing the probable cause of Mrs. Murray's great indignation.
For some weeks she had been thrown frequently into the society of Mr. Hammond's guests, and while her distrust of Mrs. Powell, her aversion to her melting, musical voice, increased at every interview, a genuine affection for Gertrude had taken root in her heart.
They were the same age, but one was an earnest women, the other a fragile, careless, gleeful, enthusiastic child. Although the orphan found it impossible to make a companion of this beautiful, warm-hearted girl, who hated books and turned pale at the mention of study, still Edna liked to watch the lovely, radiant face, with its cheeks tinted like sea-shells, its soft, childish blue eyes sparkling with joyousness; and she began to caress and to love her, as she would have petted a canary or one of the spotted fawns gamboling over the lawn.
As they stood hand in hand, admiring some goldfish in a small aquarium in the centre of the greenhouse, Gertrude exclaimed:
"The place is as fascinating as its master! Do tell me something about him; I wonder very often why you never mention him. I know I ought not to say it; but really, after he has talked to me for a few minutes, I forget every thing else, and think only of what he says for days and days after."
"You certainly do not allude to Mr. Murray?" said Edna.
"I certainly do. What makes you look so astonished?"
"I was not aware that you knew him."
"Oh! I have known him since the week after our arrival here. Mamma and I met him at Mrs. Inge's. Mr. Inge had some gentlemen to dinner, and they came into the parlor while we were calling. Mr. Murray sat down and talked to me then for some time, and I have frequently met him since; for it seems he loves to stroll about the woods almost as well as I do, and sometimes we walk together. You know he and my uncle are not friendly, and I believe mamma does not like him, so he never comes to the parsonage; and never seems to see me if I am with her or Uncle Allan. But is he not very fascinating? If he were not a little too old for me, I believe I should really be very much in love with him."
An expression of disgust passed swiftly over Edna's pale face; she dropped her companion's hand, and asked coldly:
"Does your mother approve of your walks with Mr. Murray?"
"For heaven's sake, don't look so solemn! I—she—really I don't know! I never told her a word about it. Once I mentioned having met him, and showed her some flowers he gave me; and she took very little notice of the matter. Several times since he has sent me bouquets, and though I kept them out of uncle's sight, she saw them in my room, and must have suspected where they came from. Of course he can not come to the parsonage to see me when he does not speak to my uncle or to mamma; but I do not see any harm in his walking and talking with me, when I happen to meet him. Oh! how lovely those lilies are, leaning over the edge of the aquarium! Mr. Murray said that some day he would show me all the beautiful things at Le Bocage; but he has forgotten his promise, I am afraid and I—"
"Ah! Miss Gertrude, how could you doubt me? I am here to fulfill my promise."
He pushed aside the boughs of a guava which stood between them, and, coming forward, took Gertrude's hand, drew it under his arm, and looked down eagerly, admiringly, into her blushing face.
"Oh, Mr. Murray! I had no idea you were anywhere near me. I am sure I could—"
"Did you imagine you could escape my eyes, which are always seeking you? Permit me to be your cicerone over Le Bocage, instead of Miss Edna here, who looks as if she had been scolding you. Perhaps she will be so good as to wait for us, and I will bring you back in a half-hour at least."
"Edna, will you wait here for me?" asked Gertrude.
"Why can not Mr. Murray bring you to the house? There is nothing more to see here."
"Allow us to judge for ourselves, if you please. There is a late Paris paper, which will amuse you till we return."
St. Elmo threw a newspaper at her feet, and led Gertrude away through one of the glass doors into the park.
Edna sat down on the edge of the aquarium, and the hungry little fish crowded close to her, looking up wistfully for the crumbs she was wont to scatter there daily; but now their mute appeal was unheeded.
Her colorless face and clasped hands grew cold as the marble basin on which they rested, and the great, hopeless agony that seized her heart came to her large eyes and looked out drearily.
It was in vain that she said to herself:
"St. Elmo Murray is nothing to me; why should I care if he loves Gertrude? She is so beautiful and confiding and winning. Of course, if he knows her well he must love her. It is no business of mine. We are not even friends; we are worse than strangers; and it can not concern me whom he loves or whom he hates."
Her own heart laughed her words to scorn, and answered defiantly: "He is my king! my king! I have crowned and sceptred him, and right royally he rules!"
In pitiable humiliation she acknowledged that she had found it impossible to tear her thoughts from him; that his dark face followed—haunted her, sleeping and waking. While she shrank from his presence, and dreaded his character, she could not witness his fond manner to Gertrude without a pang of the keenest pain she had ever endured.
The suddenness of the discovery shocked her into a thorough understanding of her own feelings. The grinning fiend of jealousy had swept aside the flimsy veil which she had never before fully lifted; and looking sorrowfully down into the bared holy of holies, she saw standing between the hovering wings of golden cherubim an idol of clay demanding homage, daring the wrath of conscience, the high priest. She saw all now, and saw, too, at the same instant, whither her line of duty led.
The atmosphere was sultry, but she shivered; and if a mirror could have been held before her eyes, she would have started back from the gray, stony face so unlike hers.
It seemed so strange that the heart of the accomplished misanthrope—the man of letters and science, who had ransacked the world for information and amusement—should surrender itself to the prattle of a pretty young thing, who could sympathize in no degree with his pursuits, and was as utterly incapable of understanding his nature as his Tartar horse or his pet bloodhound.
She had often heard Mrs. Murray say, "If there is one thing more uncertain even than the verdict of a jury—if there is one thing which is known neither in heaven, earth, or hell, and which angels and demons alike waste time in guessing at—it is what style of woman any man will fancy and select for his wife. It is utterly impossible to predict what matrimonial caprice may or may not seize even the wisest, most experienced, most practical, and reasonable of men; and I would sooner undertake to conjecture how high the thermometer stands at this instant on the crest of Mount Copernicus up yonder in the moon, than attempt to guess what freak will decide a man's choice of a bride."
Sternly Edna faced the future, and pictured Gertrude as Mr. Murray's wife; for if he loved her (and did not his eyes declare it?), of course he would sweep every objection, every obstacle to the winds, and marry her speedily. She tried to think of him—the cold, harsh scoffer—as the fond husband of that laughing child; and though the vision was indescribably painful, she forced herself to dwell upon it.
The idea that he would ever love any one or anything had never until this hour occurred to her; and while she could neither tolerate his opinions or respect his character, she found herself smitten with a great, voiceless anguish at the thought of his giving his sinful bitter heart to any woman.
"Why did she love him? Curious fool be still!Is human love the growth of human will?"
Pressing her hand to her eyes she murmured:
"Gertrude is right; he is fascinating, but it is the fascination of a tempting demon! Ah! if I had never come here, if I had never been cursed with the sight of his face! But I am no weak, silly child like Gertrude Powell; I know what my duty is, and I am strong enough to conquer, and if necessary to crush my foolish heart. Oh! I know you, Mr. Murray, and I can defy you. To-day, shortsighted as I have been, I look down on you. You are beneath me, and the time will come when I shall look back to this hour and wonder if I were temporarily bewitched or insane. Wake up! wake up! come to your senses, Edna Earl! Put an end to this sinful folly; blush for your unwomanly weakness!"
As Gertrude's merry laugh floated up through the trees the orphan lifted her head, and the blood came back to her cheeks while she watched the two figures sauntering across, the smooth lawn. Gertrude leaned on Mr. Murray's arm, and as he talked to her his head was bent down, so that he could see the flushed face shaded by her straw hat.
She drew her hand from his arm when they reached the greenhouse, and looking much embarrassed, said hurriedly:
"I am afraid I have kept you waiting an unconscionable time; but Mr. Murray had so many beautiful things to show me that I quite forgot we had left you here alone."
"I dare say your mother thinks I have run away with you; and as I have an engagement, I must either bid you good-bye and leave you here with Mr. Murray, or go back at once with you to the house."
The orphan's voice was firm and quiet; and as she handed the French paper to St. Elmo, she turned her eyes full on his face.
"Have you read it already?" he asked, giving her one of his steely, probing glances.
"No, sir, I did not open it, as I take little interest in continental politics. Gertrude, will you go or stay?"
Mr. Murray put out his hand, took Gertrude's, and said:
"Good-bye till to-morrow. Do not forget your promise."
Turning away, he went in the direction of the stables.
In silence Edna walked on to the house, and presently Gertrude's soft fingers grasped hers.
"Edna, I hope you are not mad with me. Do you really think it is wrong for me to talk to Mr. Murray, and to like him so much?"
"Gertrude, you must judge for yourself concerning the propriety of your conduct. I shall not presume to advise you; but the fact that you are unwilling to acquaint your mother with your course ought to make you look closely at your own heart. When a girl is afraid to trust her mother, I should think there were grounds for uneasiness."
They had reached the steps, and Mrs. Powell came out to meet them.
"Where have you two runaways been? I have waited a half hour for you. Estelle, do come and see me. It is very dreary at the parsonage, and your visits are cheering and precious. Come, Gertrude."
When Gertrude kissed her friend, she whispered:
"Don't be mad with me, dearie. I will remember what you said, and talk to mamma this very evening."
Edna saw mother and daughter descend the long avenue and then running up to her room, she tied on her hat and walked rapidly across the park in an opposite direction.
About a mile and a half from Le Bocage, on a winding and unfrequented road leading to a sawmill, stood a small log-house containing only two rooms. The yard was neglected, full of rank weeds, and the gate was falling from its rusty hinges.
Edna walked up the decaying steps, and without pausing to knock, entered one of the comfortless-looking rooms.
On a cot in one corner lay an elderly man in the last stage of consumption, and by his side, busily engaged in knitting, sat a child about ten years old, whose pretty white face wore that touching look of patient placidity peculiar to the blind. Huldah Reed had never seen the light, but a marvellous change came over her countenance when Edna's light step and clear, sweet voice fell on her ear.
"Huldah, how is your father to-day?"
"Not as well as he was yesterday; but he is asleep now, and will be better when he wakes."
"Has the doctor been here to-day?"
"No, he has not been here since Sunday."
Edna stood for a while watching the labored breathing of the sleeper, and, putting her hand on Huldah's head, she whispered:
"Do you want me to read to you this evening? It is late, but I shall have time for a short chapter."
"Oh! please do, if it is only a few lines. It will not wake him."
The child rose, spread out her hands, and groped her way across the room to a small table, whence she took an old Bible.
The two sat down together by the western window, and Edna asked:
"Is there any particular chapter you would like to hear?"
"Please read about blind Bartimeus sitting by the roadside, waiting forJesus."
Edna turned to the verses and read in a subdued tone for some moments. In her eager interest Huldah slid down on her knees, rested her thin hands on her companion's lap and raised her sweet face, with its wide, vacant, sad, hazel eyes.
When Edna read the twenty-fourth verse of the next chapter, the small hands were laid upon the page to arrest her attention.
"Edna, do you believe that? 'What things soever you desire, when ye pray believe that ye receive them, AND YE SHALL HAVE THEM!' Jesus said that: and if I pray that my eyes may be opened, do you believe I shall see? They tell me that—that pa will not live. Oh! do you think if I pray day and night, and if I believe, and oh! I do believe, I will believe! do you think Jesus will let me see him—my father—before he dies? If I could only see his dear face once, I would be willing to be blind afterward. All my life I have felt his face, and I knew it by my fingers; but oh! I can't feel it in the grave! I have been praying so hard ever since the doctor said he must die; praying that Jesus would have mercy on me, and let me see him just once. Last night I dreamed Christ came and put his hands on my eyes, and said to me, too, 'Thy faith hath made thee whole'; and I waked up crying, and my own fingers were pulling my eyes open; but it was all dark, dark. Edna, won't you help me pray! And do you believe I shall see him?"
Edna took the quivering face in her soft palms, and tenderly kissed the lips several times.
"My dear Huldah, you know the days of miracles are over, and Jesus is not walking in the world now to cure the suffering and the blind and the dumb."
"But he is sitting close to the throne of God, and he could send some angel down to touch my eyes, and let me see my dear, dear pa once—ah! just once. Oh! he is the same Jesus now as when he felt sorry for Bartimeus. And why won't He pity me, too? I pray and believe, and that is what He said I must do."
"I think that the promise relates to spiritual things, and means that when we pray for strength to resist temptation and sin, Jesus sends the Holy Spirit to assist all who earnestly strive to do their duty. But, dear Huldah, one thing is very certain, even if you are blind in this world, there will come a day when God will open your eyes, and you shall see those you love, face to face; 'for there shall be no night there' in that city of rest—no need of sun or moon, for 'the Lamb is the light thereof.'"
"Huldah—daughter!"
The child glided swiftly to the cot, and, looking round, Edna doubted the evidence of her senses; for by the side of the sufferer stood a figure so like Mr. Murray that her heart began to throb painfully.
The corner of the room was dim and shadowy, but a strong, deep voice soon dispelled all doubt.
"I hope you are better to-day, Reed. Here are some grapes which will refresh you, and you can eat them as freely as your appetite prompts."
Mr. Murray placed a luscious cluster in the emaciated hands, and put the basket down on the floor near the cot. As he drew a chair from the wall and seated himself, Edna crossed the room stealthily, and, laying her hand on Huldah's shoulder, led her out to the front steps.
"Huldah, has Mr. Murray ever been here before?"
"Oh! yes—often and often; but he generally comes later than this. He brings all the wine poor pa drinks, and very often peaches and grapes. Oh! he is so good to us. I love to hear him come up the steps; and many a time, when pa is asleep, I sit here at night, listening for the gallop of Mr. Murray's horse. Somehow I feel so safe, as if nothing could go wrong, when he is in the house."
"Why did you never tell me this before? Why have you not spoken of him?"
"Because he charged me not to speak to any one about it—said he did not choose to have it known that he ever came here. There! pa is calling me. Won't you come in and speak to him?"
"Not this evening. Good-bye. I will come again soon."
Edna stooped, kissed the child hastily, and walked away.
She had only reached the gate, where Tamerlane was fastened, when Mr.Murray came out of the house.
"Edna!"
Reluctantly she stopped and waited for him.
"Are you not afraid to walk home alone?"
"No, sir; I am out frequently even later than this."
"It is not exactly prudent for you to go home now alone; for it will be quite dark before you can possibly reach the park gate."
He passed his horse's reins over his arm, and led him along the road.
"I am not going that way, sir. There is a path through the woods that is much shorter than the road and I can get through an opening in the orchard fence. Good evening."
She turned abruptly from the beaten road, but he caught her dress and detained her.
"I told you some time ago that I never permitted espionage in my affairs; and now with reference to what occurred at the greenhouse, I advise you to keep silent. Do you understand me?"
"In the first place, sir, I could not condescend to play spy on the actions of any one; and in the second, you may rest assured I shall not trouble myself to comment upon your affairs, in which I certainly have no interest. Your estimate of me must be contemptible indeed, if you imagine that I can only employ myself in watching your career. Dismiss your apprehensions, and rest in the assurance that I consider it no business of mine where you go or what you may choose to do."
"My only desire is to shield my pretty Gertrude's head from the wrath that may be bottled up for her."
Edna looked up fixedly into the deep, glittering eyes that watched hers, and answered quietly:
"Mr. Murray, if you love her half as well as I do, you will be more careful in the future not to subject her to the opening of the vials of wrath."
He laughed contemptuously, and exclaimed:
"You are doubtless experienced in such matters, and fully competent to advise me."
"No, sir; it does not concern me, and I presume neither to criticise nor to advise. Please be so good as to detain me no longer, and believe me when I repeat that I have no intention whatever of meddling with any of your affairs, or reporting your actions."
Putting his hands suddenly on her shoulders, he stooped, looked keenly at her, and she heard him mutter an oath. When he spoke again it was through set teeth:
"You will be wise if you adhere to that decision. Tell them at home not to wait supper for me."
He sprang into his saddle and rode toward the village; and Edna hurried homeward, asking herself:
"What first took Mr. Murray to the blacksmith's hovel? Why is he so anxious that his visits should remain undiscovered? After all, is there some latent nobility in his character? Is he so much better or worse than I have thought him? Perhaps his love for Gertrude has softened his heart, perhaps that love may be his salvation. God grant it! God grant it!"
The evening breeze rose and sang solemnly through the pine trees, but to her it seemed only to chant the melancholy refrain, "My pretty Gertrude, my pretty Gertrude."
The chill light of stars fell on the orphan's pathway, and over her pale features, where dwelt the reflection of a loneliness—a silent desolation, such as she had never realized, even when her grandfather was snatched from her clinging arms. She passed through the orchard, startling a covey of partridges that nestled in the long grass, and a rabbit that had stolen out under cover of dusk; and when she came to the fountain, she paused and looked out over the dark, quiet grounds.
Hitherto duty had worn a smiling, loving countenance, and walked gently by her side as she crossed the flowery vales of girlhood; now, the guide was transformed into an angel of wrath, pointing with drawn sword to the gate of Eden.
As the girl's light fingers locked themselves tightly, her beautiful lips uttered mournfully:
"What hast thou done, O soul of mineThat thou tremblest so?Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the lineHe bade thee go?Ah! the cloud is dark, and day by dayI am moving thither:I must pass beneath it on my way—God pity me! Whither?"
When Mrs. Murray went to her own room later than usual that night, she found Edna sitting by the table, with her Bible lying open on her lap, and her eyes fixed on the floor.
"I thought you were fast asleep before this. I sat up waiting for St.Elmo, as I wished to speak to him about some engagements for to-morrow."
The lady of the house threw herself wearily upon the lounge, and sighed as she unclasped her bracelets and took off the diamond cross that fastened her collar.
"Edna, ring for Hagar."
"Will you not let me take her place to-night? I want to talk to you before I go to sleep."
"Well, then, unlace my gaiters and take down my hair. Child, what makes you look so very serious?"
"Because what I am about to say saddens me very much. My dear Mrs. Murray, I have been in this house five peaceful, happy, blessed years; I have become warmly attached to everything about the home where I have been so kindly sheltered during my girlhood, and the thought of leaving it is exceedingly painful to me."
"What do you mean, Edna? Have you come to your senses at last, and consented to make Gordon happy?"
"No, no. I am going to New York to try to make my bread."
"You are going to a lunatic asylum! Stuff! nonsense! What can you do inNew York? It is already overstocked with poor men and women, who are onthe verge of starvation. Pooh! pooh! you look like making your bread.Don't be silly."
"I know that I am competent now to take a situation as teacher in a school, or family, and I am determined to make the experiment immediately. I want to go to New York because I can command advantages there which no poor girl can obtain in any Southern city; and the magazine for which I expect to write is published there. Mr. Manning says he will pay me liberally for such articles as he accepts, and if I can only get a situation which I hear is now vacant, I can easily support myself. Mrs. Powell received a letter yesterday from a wealthy friend in New York who desires to secure a governess for her young children, one of whom is deformed. She said she was excessively particular as to the character of the woman to whose care she committed her crippled boy, and that she had advertised for one who could teach him Greek. I shall ask Mrs. Powell and Mr. Hammond to telegraph to her to-morrow and request her not to engage any one till a letter can reach her from Mr. Hammond and myself. I believe he knows the lady, who is very distantly related to Mrs. Powell. Still, before I took this step, I felt that I owed it to you to acquaint you with my intention."
"It is a step which I cannot sanction. I detest that Mrs. Powell—I utterly loathe the sound of her name, and I should be altogether unwilling to see you domesticated with any of her 'friends.' I am surprised that Mr. Hammond could encourage any such foolish scheme on your part."
"As yet he is entirely ignorant of my plan, for I have mentioned it to no one except yourself; but I do not think he will oppose it. Dear Mrs. Murray, much as I love you, I cannot remain here any longer, for I could not continue to owe my bread even to your kind and tender charity. You have educated me, and only God knows how inexpressibly grateful I am for all your goodness; but now, I could no longer preserve my self-respect or be happy as a dependent on your bounty."
She had taken Mrs. Murray's hand, and while tears gathered in her eyes, she kissed the fingers and pressed them against her cheek.
"If you are too proud to remain here as you have done for so many years, how do you suppose you can endure the humiliations and affronts which will certainly be your portion when you accept a hireling's position in the family of a stranger? Don't you know that of all drudgery that required of governesses is most fraught with vexation and bitterness of spirit? I have never treated you as an upper servant, but loved you and shielded you from slights and insults as if you were my niece or my daughter. Edna, you could not endure the lot you have selected; your proud, sensitive nature would be galled to desperation. Stay here and help me keep house; write and study as much as you like, and do as you please; only don't leave me."
She drew the girl to her bosom, and while she kissed her, tears fell on the pale face.
"Oh, Mrs. Murray! it is hard to leave you! For indeed I love you more than you will ever believe or realize; but I must go! I feel it is my duty, and you would not wish me to stay here and be unhappy."
"Unhappy here! Why so? Something is wrong, and I must know just what it is. Somebody has been meddling—taunting you. Edna, I ask a plain question, and I want the whole truth. You and Estelle do not like each other; is her presence here the cause of your determination to quit my house?"
"No, Mrs. Murray; if she were not here I should still feel it my duty to go out and earn my living. You are correct in saying we do not particularly like each other; there is little sympathy between us, but no bad feeling that I am aware of, and she is not the cause of my departure."
Mrs. Murray was silent a moment, scrutinizing the face on her shoulder.
"Edna, can it be my son? Has some harsh speech of St. Elmo's piqued and wounded you?"
"Oh! no. His manner toward me is quite as polite, nay, rather more considerate than when I first came here. Beside, you know, we are almost strangers; sometimes weeks elapse without our exchanging a word."
"Are you sure you have not had a quarrel with him? I know you dislike him; I know how exceedingly provoking he frequently is; but, child, he is unfortunately constituted; he is bitterly rude to everybody, and does not mean to wound you particularly."
"I have no complaint to make of Mr. Murray's manner to me. I do not expect or desire that it should be other than it is. Why do you doubt the sincerity of the reason I gave for quitting dear old Bocage? I have never expected to live here longer than was necessary to qualify myself for the work I have chosen."
"I doubt it because it is so incomprehensible that a young girl, who might be Gordon Leigh's happy wife and mistress of his elegant home, surrounded by every luxury, and idolized by one of the noblest, handsomest men I ever knew, should prefer to go among strangers and toil for a scanty livelihood. Now I know something of human nature, and I know that your course is very singular, very unnatural. Edna, my child! My dear, little girl! I can't let you go. I want you! I can't spare you! I find I love you too well, my sweet comforter in all my troubles! My only real companion!"
She clasped the orphan closer and wept.
"Oh! you don't know how precious your love is to my heart, dear, dear Mrs. Murray! In all this wide world whom have I to love me but you and Mr. Hammond? Even in the great sorrow of leaving you, it will gladden me to feel that I possess so fully your confidence and affection. But I must go away; and after a little while you will not miss me; for Estelle will be with you, and you will not need me. Oh, it is hard to leave you! it is a bitter trial! But I know what my duty is; and were it even more difficult, I would not hesitate. I hope you will not think me unduly obstinate when I tell you, that I have fully determined to apply for that situation in New York."
Mrs. Murray pushed the girl from her, and, with a sob, buried her face in her arms.
Edna waited in vain for her to speak, and finally she stooped and kissed one of the hands, and said brokenly as she left the room:
"Good-night—my dearest—my best friend. If you could only look into my heart and see how it aches at the thought of separation, you would not add the pain of your displeasure to that which I already suffer."
When the orphan opened her eyes on the following morning, she found a note pinned to her pillow:
"MY DEAR EDNA: I could not sleep last night in consequence of your unfortunate resolution, and I write to beg you, for my sake if not for your own, to reconsider the matter. I will gladly pay you the same salary that you expect to receive as governess, if you will remain as my companion and assist at Le Bocage. I cannot consent to give you up; I love you too well, my child, to see you quit my house. I shall soon be an old woman, and then what should I do without my little orphan girl? Stay with me always, and you shall never know what want and toil and hardship mean. As soon as you are awake, come and kiss me good-morning, and I shall know that you are my own dear, little Edna. "Affectionately yours, "ELLEN MURRAY."
Edna knelt and prayed for strength to do what she felt duty sternly dictated; but, though her will did not falter her heart bled, as she wrote a few lines thanking her benefactress for the affection that had brightened and warmed her whole lonely life, and assuring her that the reasons which induced her to leave Le Bocage were imperative and unanswerable.
An hour later she entered the breakfast-room, and found the members of the family already assembled. While Mrs. Murray was cold and haughty, taking no notice of Edna's salutation, Estelle talked gayly with Mr. Allston concerning a horseback ride they intended to take that morning; and Mr. Murray, leaning back in his chair, seemed engrossed in the columns of the London Times which contained a recent speech of Gladstone's. Presently he threw down the paper, looked at his watch and ordered his horse.
"St. Elmo, where are you going? Do allow yourself to be prevailed upon to wait and ride with us."
Estelle's tone was musical and coaxing as she approached her cousin and put one of her fingers through the button-hole of his coat.
"Not for all the kingdoms that Satan pointed out from the pinnacle of Mount Quarantina! I have as insuperable an objection to constituting one of a trio as some superstitious people have to forming part of a dinner-party of thirteen. Where am I going? To that 'Sea of Serenity' which astronomers tell us is located in the left eye of the face known in common parlance as the man in the moon. Where am I going? To Western Ross-shire, to pitch my tent and smoke my cigar in peace, on the brink of that blessed Loch Maree, whereof Pennant wrote."
He shook off Estelle's touch, walked to the mantel-piece, and, taking a match from the china case, drew it across the heel of his boot.
"Where is Loch Maree? I do not remember ever to have seen the name," said Mrs. Murray, pushing aside her coffee-cup.
"Oh! pardon me, mother, if I decline to undertake your geographical education. Ask that incipient Isotta Nogarole, sitting there at your right hand. Doubtless she will find it a pleasing task to instruct you in Scottish topography, while I have an engagement that forces me most reluctantly and respectfully to decline the honor of enlightening you. Confound these matches! they are all damp."
Involuntarily Mrs. Murray's eyes turned to Edna, who had not even glanced at St. Elmo since her entrance. Now she looked up, and though she had not read Pennant, she remembered the lines written on the old Druidic well by an American poet. Yielding to some inexplicable impulse, she slowly and gently repeated two verses:
"'Oh, restless heart and fevered brain!Unquiet and unstable.That holy well of Loch MareeIs more than idle fable!The shadows of a humble willAnd contrite heart are o'er it:Go read its legend—"TRUST IN GOD"—On Faith's white stones before it!'"
"While your decision is very painful to me, I shall not attempt to dissuade you from a resolution which I know has not been lightly or hastily taken. But, ah, my child! what shall I do without you?"
Mr. Hammond's eyes filled with tears as he looked at his pupil, and his hand trembled when he stroked her bowed head.
"I dread the separation from you and Mrs. Murray; but I know I ought to go; and I feel that when duty commands me to follow a path, lonely and dreary though it may seem, a light will be shed before my feet, and a staff will be put into my hands. I have often wondered what the Etrurians intended to personify in their Dii Involuti, before whose awful decrees all other gods bowed. Now I feel assured that the chief of the 'Shrouded Gods' is Duty, veiling her features with a silver-lined cloud, scorning to parley, but whose unbending figure signs our way—an unerring pillar of cloud by day, of fire by night. Mr. Hammond, I shall follow that stern finger till the clods on my coffin shut it from my sight."
The August sun shining through the lilac and myrtle boughs that rustled close to the study-window glinted over the pure, pale face of the orphan, and showed a calm mournfulness in the eyes which looked out at the quiet parsonage garden, and far away to the waving lines against the sky, where—
"A golden lustre slept upon the hills."
Just beyond the low, ivy-wreathed stone wall that marked the boundary of the garden ran a little stream, overhung with alders and willows, under whose tremendous shadows rested contented cattle—some knee-deep in water, some browsing leisurely on purple-tufted clover. From the wide, hot field, stretching away on the opposite side, came the clear metallic ring of the scythes, as the mowers sharpened them; the mellow whistle of the driver lying on top of the huge hay mass, beneath which the oxen crawled toward the lowered bars; and the sweet gurgling laughter of two romping, sunburned children, who swung on at the back of the wagon.
Edna pointed to the peaceful picture, and said: "If Rosa Bonheur could only put that on canvas for me, I would hang it upon my walls in the great city whither I am going; and when my weary days of work ended, I could sit down before it, and fold my tired hands and look at it through the mist of tears till its blessed calm stole into my heart, and I believed myself once more with you, gazing out of the study-window. Ah! blessed among all gifted women is Rosa Bonheur! accounted worthy to wear what other women may not aspire to—the Cross of the Legion of Honor! Yesterday when I read the description of the visit of the Empress to the studio, I think I was almost as proud and happy as that patient worker at the easel, when over her shoulders was hung the ribbon which France decrees only to the mighty souls who increase her glory, and before whom she bows in reverent gratitude. I am glad that a woman's hand laid that badge of immortality on womanly shoulders—a crowned head crowning the Queen of Artists. I wonder if, when obscure and in disguise, she haunted the abattoir du Roule, and worked on amid the lowing and bleating of the victims—I wonder if faith prophesied of that distant day of glorious recompense, when the ribbon of the Legion fluttered from Eugenie's white fingers and she was exalted above all thrones? Ah, Mr. Hammond! we all wear our crosses, but they do not belong to the order of the Legion of Honor."
The minister enclosed in his own the hand which she had laid on his knee, and said gently but gravely:
"My child, your ambition is your besetting sin. It is Satan pointing to the tree of knowledge, tempting you to eat and become 'as gods.' Search your heart, and I fear you will find that while you believe you are dedicating your talent entirely to the service of God, there is a spring of selfishness underlying all. You are too proud, too ambitious of distinction, too eager to climb to some lofty niche in the temple of fame, where your name, now unknown, shall shine in the annals of literature and serve as a beacon to encourage others equally as anxious for celebrity. I was not surprised to see you in print; for long, long ago, before you realized the extent of your mental dowry, I saw the kindling of that ambitious spark whose flame generally consumes the women in whose hearts it burns. The history of literary females is not calculated to allay the apprehension that oppresses me, as I watch you just setting out on a career so fraught with trials of which you have never dreamed. As a class they are martyrs, uncrowned and uncanonized; jeered at by the masses, sincerely pitied by a few earnest souls, and wept over by the relatives who really love them. Thousands of women have toiled over books that proved millstones and drowned them in the sea of letters. How many of the hundreds of female writers scattered through the world in this century, will be remembered six months after the coffin closes over their weary, haggard faces? You may answer, 'They made their bread.' Ah, child! it would have been sweeter if earned at the wash-tub, or in the dairy, or by their needles. It is the rough handling, the jars, the tension of the heartstrings that sap the foundations of a woman's life and consign her to an early grave; and a Cherokee rose-hedge is not more thickly set with thorns than a literary career with grievous, vexatious, tormenting disappointments. If you succeed after years of labor and anxiety and harassing fears, you will become a target for envy and malice, and, possibly, for slander. Your own sex will be jealous of your eminence, considering your superiority an insult to their mediocrity; and mine will either ridicule or barely tolerate you; for men detest female competitors in the Olympian game of literature. If you fail, you will be sneered down till you become embittered, soured, misanthropic; a curse to yourself, a burden to the friends who sympathize with your blasted hopes. Edna, you have talent, you write well, you are conscientious; but you are not De Stael, or Hannah More, or Charlotte Bronte, or Elizabeth Browning; and I shudder when I think of the disappointment that may overtake all your eager aspirations. If I could be always near you, I should indulge less apprehension for your future; for I believe that I could help you to bear patiently whatever is in store for you. But far away among strangers you must struggle alone."
"Mr. Hammond, I do not rely upon myself; my hope is in God."
"My child, the days of miraculous inspiration are ended."
"Ah! do not discourage me. When the Bishop of Noyon hesitated to consecrate St. Radegund, she said to him, 'Thou wilt have to render thy account, and the Shepherd will require of thee the souls of his sheep.' My dear sir, your approbation is the consecration that I desire upon my purpose. God will not forsake me; He will strengthen and guide me and bless my writing, even as He blesses your preaching. Because He gave you five talents and to me only one, do you think that in the great day of reckoning mine will not be required of me? I do not expect to 'enter into the joy of my Lord' as you will be worthy to do; but with the blessing of God, I trust the doom of the altogether unprofitable servant will not be pronounced against me."
She had bowed her head till it rested on his knee, and presently the old man put his hands upon the glossy hair and murmured solemnly:
"And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your heart and mind through Christ Jesus."
A brief silence reigned in the study, broken first by the shout of the haymakers and the rippling laugh of the children in the adjacent field, and then by the calm voice of the pastor:
"I have offered you a home with me as long as I have a roof that I can call my own; but you prefer to go to New York, and henceforth I shall never cease to pray that your resolution may prove fortunate in all respects. You no longer require my direction in your studies, but I will suggest that it might be expedient for you to give more attention to positive and less to abstract science. Remember those noble words of Sir David Brewster, to which, I believe, I have already called your attention, 'If the God of love is most appropriately worshipped in the Christian temple, the God of nature may be equally honored in the temple of science. Even from its lofty minarets the philosopher may summon the faithful to prayer, and the priest and the sage may exchange altars without the compromise of faith or of knowledge.' Infidelity has shifted the battlefield from metaphysics to physics, from idealism and rationalism to positivism or rank materialism; and in order to combat it successfully, in order to build up an imperishable system of Christian teleology, it is necessary that you should thoroughly acquaint yourself with the 'natural sciences,' with dynamics, and all the so-called 'inherent forces of nature,' or what Humboldt terms 'primordial necessity.' This apotheosis of dirt, by such men as Moleschott, Buchner, and Voght, is the real Antaeus which, though continually over-thrown, springs from mother earth with renewed vigor, and after a little while some Hercules of science will lift the boaster in his inexorable arms and crush him."
Here Mrs. Powell entered the room, and Edna rose and tied on her hat.
"Mr. Hammond, will you go over to see Huldah this afternoon? Poor little thing! she is in great distress about her father."
"I fear he cannot live many days. I went to see him yesterday morning, and would go again with you now, but have promised to baptize two children this evening."
Edna was opening the gate when Gertrude called to her from a shaded corner of the yard, and turning, she saw her playing with a fawn, about whose neck she had twined a long spray of honeysuckle.
"Do come and see the beautiful present Mr. Murray sent me several days ago. It is as gentle and playful as a kitten, and seems to know me already."
Gertrude patted the head of her pretty pet and continued:
"I have often read about gazelle's eyes, and I wonder if these are not quite as lovely? Very often when I look at them they remind me of yours. There is such a soft, sad, patient expression, as if she knew perfectly well that some day the hunters would be sure to catch and kill her, and she was meekly biding her time to be turned into venison steak. I never will eat another piece! The dear little thing! Edna, do you know that you have the most beautiful eyes in the world, except Mr. Murray's? His glitter like great stars under long, long black silk fringe. By the way, how is he? I have not seen him for some days and you can have no idea how I do want to look into his face, and hear his voice, which is so wonderfully sweet and low. I wrote him a note thanking him for this little spotted darling; but he has not answered it—has not come near me, and I was afraid he might be sick."
Gertrude stole one arm around her companion's neck and nestled her golden head against the orphan's shoulder.
"Mr. Murray is very well; at least, appears so. I saw him at breakfast."
"Does he ever talk about me?"
"No; I never heard him mention your name but once, and then it occurred incidentally."
"Oh, Edna! is it wrong for me to think about him so constantly? Don't press your lips together in that stern, hard way. Dearie, put your arms around me, and kiss me. Oh! if you could know how very much I love him! How happy I am when he is with me. Edna, how can I help it? When he touches my hand, and smiles down at me, I forget everything else! I feel as if I would follow him to the end of the earth. He is a great deal older than I am; but how can I remember that when he is looking at me with those wonderful eyes? The last time I saw him, he said—well, something very sweet, and I was sure he loved me, and I leaned my head against his shoulder; but he would not let me touch him; he pushed me away with a terrific frown, that wrinkled and blackened his face. Oh! it seems an age since then."
Edna kissed the lovely coral lips, and smoothed the bright curls that the wind had blown about the exquisitely moulded cheeks.
"Gertrude, when he asks you to love him, you will have a right to indulge your affection; but until then you ought not to allow him to know your feelings, or permit yourself to think so entirely of him."
"But do you believe it is wrong for me to love him so much?"
"That is a question which your own heart must answer."
Edna felt that her own lips were growing cold, and she disengaged the girl's clasping arms.
"Edna, I know you love me; will you do something for me? Please give him this note. I am afraid that he did not receive the other, or that he is offended with me."
She drew a dainty three-cornered envelope from her pocket.
"No, Gertrude; I can be a party to no clandestine correspondence. I have too much respect for your uncle, to assist in smuggling letters in and out of his house. Beside, your mother would not sanction the course you are pursuing."
"Oh! I showed her the other note, and she only laughed, and patted my cheek, and said, 'Why, Mignonne! he is old enough to be your father.' This note is only to find out whether he received the other. I sent it by the servant who brought this fawn—oh dear me! just see what a hole the pretty little wretch has nibbled in my new Swiss muslin dress! Won't mamma scold! There, do go away, pet; I will feed you presently. Indeed, Edna, there is no harm in your taking the note, for I give you my word mamma does not care. Do you think I would tell you a story? Please, Edna. It will reach him so much sooner if you carry it over, than if I were to drop it into the post-office where it may stay for a week; and Uncle Allan has no extra servants to run around on errands for me."
"Gertrude, are you not deceiving me? Are you sure your mother read the other note and sanctions this?"
"Certainly; you may ask her if you doubt me. There! I must hurry in; mamma is calling me. Dear Edna, if you love me! Yes, mamma, I am coming."
Edna could not resist the pleading of the lovely face pressed close to hers, and with a sigh she took the tiny note and turned away.
More than a week had elapsed since Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Powell had written, recommending her for the situation in Mrs. Andrews's famity; and with feverish impatience she awaited the result. During this interval she had not exchanged a word with Mr. Murray—had spent much of her time in writing down in her note-book such references from the library as she required in her MS.; and while Estelle seemed unusually high-spirited, Mrs. Murray watched in silence the orphan's preparations for departure.
Absorbed in very painful reflections, the girl walked on rapidly till she reached the cheerless home of the blacksmith, and knocked at the door.
"Come in, Mr. Murray."
Edna pushed open the door and walked in.
"It is not Mr. Murray this time."
"Oh, Edna! I am so glad you happened to come. He would not let me tell you; he said he did not wish it known. But now you are here, you will stay with me, won't you, till it is over?"
Huldah was kneeling at the side of her father's cot, and Edna was startled by the look of eager, breathless anxiety printed on her white, trembling face.
"What does she mean, Mr. Reed?"
"Poor little lamb, she is so excited she can hardly speak, and I am not strong enough to talk much. Huldah, daughter, tell Miss Edna all about it."
"Mr. Murray heard all I said to you about praying to have my eyes opened, and he went to town that same evening, and telegraphed to some doctor in Philadelphia, who cures blindness, to come on and see if he could do anything for my eyes. Mr. Murray was here this morning, and said he had heard from the doctor, and that he would come this afternoon. He said he could only stay till the cars left for Chattanooga, as he must go back at once. You know he—hush! There! there! I hear the carriage now. Oh, Edna! pray for me! Pa, pray for my poor eyes!"
The sweet, childish face was colorless, and tears filled the filmy, hazel eyes as Huldah clasped her hands. Her lips moved rapidly, though no sound was audible.
Edna stepped behind the door, and peeped through a crack in the planks.
Mr. Murray entered first and beckoned to the stranger, who paused at the threshold, with a case of instruments in his hand.
"Come in, Hugh; here is your patient, very much frightened, too, I am afraid. Huldah, come to the light."
He drew her to the window, lifted her to a chair, and the doctor bent down, pushed back his spectacles, and cautiously examined the child's eyes.
"Don't tremble so, Huldah; there is nothing to be afraid of. The doctor will not hurt you."
"Oh! it is not that I fear to be hurt! Edna, are you praying for me?"
"Edna is not here," answered Mr. Murray, glancing round the room.
"Yes, she is here. I did not tell her, but she happened to come a little while ago. Edna, won't you hold one of my hands? Oh, Edna! Edna!"
Reluctantly the orphan came forward, and, without lifting her eyes, took one of the little outstretched hands firmly in both her own. While Mr. Murray silently appropriated the other, Huldah whispered:
"Please both of you pray for me."
The doctor raised the eyelids several times, peered long and curiously at the eyeballs, and opened his case of instruments.
"This is one of those instances of congenital cataract which might have been relieved long ago. A slight operation will remove the difficulty. St. Elmo, you asked me about the probability of an instantaneous restoration, and I had begun to tell you about that case which Wardrop mentions of a woman, blind from her birth till she was forty-six years of age. She could not distinguish objects for several days—"
"Oh, sir! will I see? Will I see my father?" Her fingers closed spasmodically over those that clasped them, and the agonizing suspense written in her countenance was pitiable to contemplate.
"Yes, my dear, I hope so—I think so. You know, Murray, the eye has to be trained; but Haller mentions a case of a nobleman who saw distinctly at various distances, immediately after the cataract was removed from the axis of vision. Now, my little girl, hold just as still as possible. I, shall not hurt you."
Skilfully he cut through the membrane and drew it down, then held his hat between her eyes and the light streaming through the window.
Some seconds elapsed and suddenly a cry broke from the child's lips.
"Oh! something shines! there is a light, I believe!"
Mr. Murray threw his handkerchief over her head, caught her in his arms and placed her on the side of the cot.
"The first face her eyes ever look upon shall be that which she loves best—her father's."
As he withdrew the handkerchief Mr. Reed feebly raised his arms toward his child, and whispered:
"My little Huldah—my daughter, can you see me?"
She stooped, put her face close to his, swept her small fingers repeatedly over the emaciated features, to convince herself of the identity of the new sensation of sight with the old and reliable sense of touch; then she threw her head back with a wild laugh, a scream of delight.
"Oh! I see! Thank God I see my father's face! My dear pa! my own dear pa!"
For some moments she hung over the sufferer, kissing him, murmuring brokenly her happy, tender words, and now and then resorting to the old sense of touch.
While Edna wiped away tears of joyful sympathy which she strove in vain to restrain, she glanced at Mr. Murray, and wondered how he could stand there watching the scene with such bright, dry eyes.
Seeming suddenly to remember that there were other countenances in the world beside that tear-stained one on the pillow, Huldah slipped down from the cot, turned toward the group, and shaded her eyes with her fingers.
"Oh, Edna! a'n't you glad for me? Where are you? I knew Jesus would hear me. 'What things soever ye desire, when ye pray believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.' I did believe, and I see! I see! I prayed that God would send down some angel to touch my eyes, and He sent Mr. Murray and the doctor."
After a pause, during which the oculist prepared some bandages, Huldah added:
"Which one is Mr. Murray? Will you, please, come to me? My ears and my fingers know you, but my eyes don't."
He stepped forward and putting out her hands she grasped his, and turned her untutored eyes upon him. Before he could suspect her design she fell at his feet, threw her arms around his knees, and exclaimed:
"How good you are! How shall I ever thank you enough? How good." She clung to him and sobbed hysterically.
Edna saw him lift her from the floor and put her back beside her father, while the doctor bandaged her eyes; and waiting to hear no more, the orphan glided away and hurried along the road.
Ere she had proceeded far, she heard the quick trot of the horses, the roll of the carriage. Leaning out as they overtook her, Mr. Murray directed the driver to stop, and swinging open the door, he stepped out and approached her.
"The doctor dines at Le Bocage; will you take a seat with us, or do you, as usual, prefer to walk alone?"
"Thank you, sir; I am not going home now. I shall walk on."
He bowed, and was turning away, but she drew the delicately perfumed envelope from her pocket.
"Mr. Murray, I was requested by the writer to hand you this note, as she feared its predecessor was lost by the servant to whom she entrusted it."
He took it, glanced at the small, cramped, school-girlish handwriting, smiled, and thrust it into his vest pocket, saying in a low, earnest tone:
"This is, indeed, a joyful surprise. You are certainly more reliable than Henry. Accept my cordial thanks, which I have not time to reiterate. I generally prefer to owe my happiness entirely to Gertrude; but in this instance I can bear to receive it through the medium of your hands. As you are so prompt and trusty, I may trouble you to carry my answer."
The carriage rolled on, leaving a cloud of dust which the evening sunshine converted into a glittering track of glory, and seating herself on a grassy bank, Edna leaned her head against the body of a tree; and all the glory passed swiftly away, and she was alone in the dust.
As the sun went down, the pillared forest aisles stretching westward, filled first with golden haze, then glowed with a light redder than Phthiotan wine poured from the burning beaker of the sun; and only the mournful cooing of doves broke the solemn silence as the pine organ whispered its low coranach for the dead day; and the cool shadow of coming night crept, purple-mantled, velvet-sandaled, down the forest glades.
"Oh! if I had gone away a week ago! before I knew there was any redeeming charity in his sinful nature! If I could only despise him utterly, it would be so much easier to forget him. Ah! God pity me! God help me! What right have I to think of Gertrude's lover—Gertrude's husband! I ought to be glad that he is nobler than I thought, but I am not! Oh! I am not! I wish I had never known the good that he has done. Oh, Edna Earl! has it come to this? How I despise—how I hate myself!"
Rising, she shook back her thick hair, passed her hands over her hot temples, and stood listening to the distant whistle of a partridge—to the plaint of the lonely dove nestled among the pine boughs high above her; and gradually a holy calm stole over her face, fixing it as the merciful touch of death stills features that have long writhed in mortal agony. Into her struggling heart entered a strength which comes only when weary, wrestling, honest souls turn from human sympathy, seek the hallowed cloisters of Nature and are folded tenderly in the loving arms of Mother Cybele, who "never did betray the heart that loved her."
"Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky * * * 'Tis her privilege,Through all the years of this our life, to leadFrom joy to joy, for she can so informThe mind that is within us, so impressWith quietness and beauty, and so feedWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,Nor greetings where no kindness is—nor allThe dreary intercourse of daily life,Shall e'er prevail against us or disturbOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdIs full of blessing"
To her dewy altars among the mountains of Gilead fled Jephthah's daughter, in the days when she sought for strength to fulfill her father's battle-vow; and into her pitying starry eyes looked stricken Rizpah, from those dreary rocks where love held faithful vigil, guarding the bleaching bones of her darling dead, sacrificed for the sins of Saul.