St. Elmo a novel |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. | CHAPTER IV. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
 | CHAPTER IV. St. Elmo |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
VIEWED by the aid of lanterns and the lurid,
flickering light of torches, the scene of disaster
presented a ghastly debris of dead and dying,
of crushed cars and wounded men and women,
who writhed and groaned among the shattered timbers
from which they found it impossible to extricate themselves.
The cries of those who recognized relatives in the mutilated
corpses that were dragged out from the wreck increased
the horrors of the occasion; and when Edna opened
her eyes amid the flaring of torches and the piercing wails
of the bereaved passengers, her first impression was, that
she had died and gone to Dante's “Hell;” but the pangs
that seized her when she attempted to move soon dispelled
this frightful illusion, and by degrees the truth presented
itself to her blunted faculties. She was held fast between
timbers, one of which seemed to have fallen across her feet
and crushed them, as she was unable to move them, and
was conscious of a horrible sensation of numbness; one
arm, too, was pinioned at her side, and something heavy
and cold lay upon her throat and chest. Lifting this
weight with her uninjured hand, she uttered an exclamation
of horror as the white face of the little baby whose fingers
she had clasped now met her astonished gaze; and she
saw that the sweet coral lips were pinched and purple, the
waxen lids lay rigid over the blue eyes, and the dimpled
hand was stiff and icy. The confusion increased as day
broke and a large crowd collected to offer assistance, and
way through the wreck and lifted out the wretched sufferers.
Finally two men, with axes in their hands, bent down
and looked into her face.
“Here is a live child and a dead baby wedged in between
these beams! Are you much hurt, little one?”
“Yes, I believe I am. Please take this log off my feet.”
It was a difficult matter, but at length strong arms raised
her, carried her some distance from the ruins, and placed
her on the grass, where several other persons were writhing
and groaning. The collision, which precipitated the train
from trestle-work over a deep ravine, had occurred near a
village depot, and two physicians were busily engaged in
examining the wounded. The sun had risen, and shone
full on Edna's pale suffering face, when one of the surgeons,
with a countenance that indexed earnest sympathy and
compassion, came to investigate the extent of her injuries,
and sat down on the grass beside her. Very tenderly he
handled her, and after a few moments said gently:
“I am obliged to hurt you a little, my child, for your
shoulder is dislocated, and some of the bones are broken in
your feet; but I will be as tender as possible. Here, Lennox!
help me.”
The pain was so intense that she fainted, and after a
short time, when she recovered her consciousness, her feet
and ankles were tightly bandaged, and the doctor was
chafing her hands and bathing her face with some powerful
extract. Smoothing back her hair, he said:
“Were your parents on the cars? Do you know whether
they are hurt?”
“They both died when I was a baby.”
“Who was with you?”
“Nobody but Grip-my dog.”
“Had you no relatives or friends on the train?”
“I have none. I am all alone in the world.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Chattanooga.”
“Where were you going?”
“My grandpa died, and as I had nobody to take care of
me, I was going to Columbus, to work in the cotton factory.”
“Humph! Much work you will do for many a long
day.”
He stroked his grayish beard, and mused a moment, and
Edna said timidly:
“If you please, sir, I would like to know if my dog is
hurt?”
The physician smiled, and looked around inquiringly:
“Has any one seen a dog that was on the train?”
One of the brakemen, a stout Irishman, took his pipe
from his mouth, and answered:
“Aye, aye, sir! and as vicious a brute as ever I set eyes
on. Both his hind-legs were smashed—dragged so—and
I tapped him on the head with an ax to put him out of his
misery. Yonder he lies now on the track.”
Edna put her hand over her eyes, and turned her face
down on the grass to hide tears that would not be
driven back. Here the surgeon was called away, and for a
half hour the child lay there, wondering what would become
of her, in her present crippled and helpless condition,
and questioning in her heart why God did not take her instead
of that dimpled darling, whose parents were now
weeping so bitterly for the untimely death that mowed
their blossom ere its petals were expanded. The chilling
belief was fast gaining ground that God had cursed and
forsaken her; that misfortune and bereavement would dog
her steps through life; and a hard, bitter expression settled
about her mouth, and looked out gloomily from the sad
eyes. Her painful reverie was interrupted by the cheery
voice of Dr. Rodney, who came back, accompanied by an
elegantly-dressed middle-aged lady.
“Ah my brave little soldier! Tell us your name?”
“Edna Earl.”
“Have you no relatives?” asked the lady, stooping to
scrutinize her face.
“No, ma'am.”
“She is a very pretty child, Mrs. Murray, and if you can
take care of her, even for a few weeks, until she is able to
walk about, it will be a real charity. I never saw so much
fortitude displayed by one so young; but her fever is increasing,
and she needs immediate attention. Will it be
convenient for you to carry her to your house at once?”
“Certainly, doctor; order the carriage driven up as close
as possible. I brought a small mattress, and think the ride
will not be very painful. What splendid eyes she has!
Poor little thing! Of course you will come and prescribe
for her, and I will see that she is carefully nursed until she
is quite well again. Here, Henry, you and Richard must
lift this child, and put her on the mattress in the carriage.
Mind you do not stumble and hurt her.”
During the ride neither spoke, and Edna was in so much
pain that she lay with her eyes closed. As they entered a
long avenue, the rattle of the wheels on the gravel aroused
the child's attention, and when the carriage stopped, and
she was carried up a flight of broad marble steps, she saw
that the house was very large and handsome.
“Bring her into the room next to mine,” said Mrs. Murray,
leading the way.
Edna was soon undressed and placed within the snowy
sheets of a heavily-carved bedstead, whose crimson canopy
shed a ruby light down on the laced and ruffled pillows.
Mrs. Murray administered a dose of medicine given to her
by Dr. Rodney, and after closing the blinds to exclude the
light, she felt the girl's pulse, found that she had fallen into
a heavy sleep, and then, with a sigh, went down to take
her breakfast. It was several hours before Edna awoke,
and when she opened her eyes, and looked around the
elegantly furnished and beautiful room, she felt bewildered.
with a book in her hand, and Edna had an opportunity
of studying her face. It was fair, proud, and handsome,
but wore an expression of habitual anxiety; and
gray hairs showed themselves under the costly lace that
bordered her morning head-dress, while lines of care marked
her brow and mouth. Children instinctively decipher the
hieroglyphics which time carves on human faces, and, in
reading the countenance of her hostess, Edna felt that she
was a haughty, ambitious woman, with a kind but not very
warm heart, who would be scrupulously attentive to the
wants of a sick child, but would probably never dream of
caressing or fondling such a charge. Chancing to glance
towards the bed as she turned a leaf, Mrs. Murray met the
curious gaze fastened upon her, and, rising, approached the
sufferer.
“How do you feel, Edna? I believe that is your name.”
“Thank you, my head is better, but I am very thirsty.”
The lady of the house gave her some ice-water in a silver
goblet, and ordered a servant to bring up the refreshments
she had directed prepared. As she felt the girl's pulse,
Edna noticed how white and soft her hands were, and how
dazzlingly the jewels flashed on her fingers, and she longed
for the touch of those aristocratic hands on her hot brow
where the hair clustered so heavily.
“How old are you, Edna?”
“Almost thirteen.”
“Had you any baggage on the train?”
“I had a small box of clothes.”
“I will send a servant for it.” She rang the bell as she
spoke.
“When do you think I shall be able to walk about?”
“Probably not for many weeks. If you need or wish
any thing you must not hesitate to ask for it. A servant
will sit here, and you have only to tell her what you
want.”
“You are very kind, ma'am, and I thank you very much —”
She paused, and her eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. Murray looked at her and said gravely:
“What is the matter, child?”
“I am only sorry I was so ungrateful and wicked this
morning.”
“How so?”
“Oh! every thing that I love dies; and when I lay there on
the grass, unable to move, among strangers who knew and
cared nothing about me, I was wicked, and would not try to
pray, and thought God wanted to make me suffer all my life;
and I wished that I had been killed instead of that dear little
baby, who had a father and mother to kiss and to love it.
It was all wrong to feel so, but I was so wretched. And
then God raised up friends even among strangers, and
shows me I am not forsaken if I am desolate. I begin to
think He took every body away from me, that I might see
how He could take care of me without them. I know `He
doeth all things well,' but I feel it now; and I am so sorry
I could not trust Him without seeing it.”
Edna wiped away her tears, and Mrs. Murray's voice
faltered slightly as she said:
“You are a good little girl, I have no doubt. Who
taught you to be so religious?”
“Grandpa.”
“How long since you lost him?”
“Four months.”
“Can you read?”
“Oh! yes, ma'am.”
“Well, I shall send you a Bible, and you must make yourself
as contented as possible. I shall take good care of
you.”
As the hostess left the room a staid-looking, elderly negro
woman took a seat at the window and sewed silently,
now and then glancing toward the bed. Exhausted with
pain and fatigue, Edna slept again, and it was night when
at her pillow. The kind surgeon talked pleasantly for
some time, and, after giving ample instructions, took his
leave, exhorting his patient to keep up her fortitude and
all would soon be well. So passed the first day of her sojourn
under the hospitable roof which appeared so fortuitously
to shelter her; and the child thanked God fervently
for the kind hands into which she had fallen. Day after
day wore wearily away, and at the end of a fortnight,
though much prostrated by fever and suffering, she was
propped up in bed by pillows while Hagar, the servant,
combed and plaited the long, thick, matted hair. Mrs.
Murray came often to the room, but her visits were short,
and though invariably kind and considerate, Edna felt an
involuntary awe of her, which rendered her manner exceedingly
constrained when they were together. Hagar
was almost as taciturn as her mistress, and as the girl asked
few questions, she remained in complete ignorance of the
household affairs, and had never seen any one but Mrs.
Murray, Hagar, and the doctor. She was well supplied
with books, which the former brought from the library,
and thus the invalid contrived to amuse herself during the
long tedious summer days. One afternoon in June Edna
persuaded Hagar to lift her to a large cushioned chair close
to the open window which looked out on the lawn; and
here, with a book on her lap, she sat gazing out at the soft
blue sky, the waving elm boughs, and the glittering plum
age of a beautiful Himalayan pheasant, which seemed in
that golden sunshine to have forgotten the rosy glow of his
native snows. Leaning her elbows on the window-sill,
Edna rested her face in her palms, and after a few minutes
a tide of tender memories rose and swept over her heart,
bringing a touching expression of patient sorrow to her sweet,
wan face, and giving a far-off wistful look to the beautiful
eyes where tears often gathered but very rarely fell. Hagar
had dressed her in a new white muslin wrapper, with fluted
with its delicate features, and glossy folds of soft hair, was
a pleasant picture, which the nurse loved to contemplate.
Standing with her work-basket in her hand, she watched
the graceful little figure for two or three moments, and a
warm, loving light shone out over her black features; then
nodding her head resolutely, she muttered:
“I will have my way this once; she shall stay,” and
passed out of the room, closing the door behind her. Edna
did not remark her departure, for memory was busy among
the ashes of other days, exhuming a thousand precious
reminiscences of mountain home, chestnut-groves, showers
of sparks fringing an anvil with fire, and an old man's unpainted
head-board in the deserted burying-ground. She
started nervously when, a half-hour later, Mrs. Murray laid
her hand gently on her shoulder and said:
“Child, of what are you thinking?”
For an instant she could not command her voice, which
faltered; but making a strong effort, she answered in a low
tone:
“Of all that I have lost, and what I am to do in future.”
“Would you be willing to work all your life in a factory?”
“No, ma'am; only long enough to educate myself, so
that I could teach.”
“You could not obtain a suitable education in that way;
and besides, I do not think that the factory you spoke of
would be an agreeable place for you. I have made some
inquiries about it since you came here.”
“I know it will not be pleasant, but then I am obliged to
work in some way, and I don't see what else I can do. I
am not able to pay for an education now, and I am determined
to have one.”
Mrs. Murray's eyes wandered out toward the velvety
lawn, and she mused for some minutes; then laying her
hands on the orphan's head, she said:
“Child, will you trust your future and your education
I will have you thoroughly educated, so that when you are
grown you can support yourself by teaching. I have no
daughter—I lost mine when she was a babe; but I could not
have seen her enter a factory, and as you remind me of my
own child, I will not allow you to go there. I will take
care of and educate you—will see that you have every thing
you require, if you are willing to be directed and advised
by me. Understand me, I do not adopt you; nor shall I
consider you exactly as one of my family; but I shall prove
a good friend and protector till you are eighteen, and capable
of providing for yourself. You will live in my house
and look upon it as your home, at least for the present.
What do you say to this plan? Is it not much better and
more pleasant than your wild-goose chase after an education
through the dust and din of a factory?”
“O Mrs. Murray! You are very generous and good,
but I have no claim on you—no right to impose such an expense
and trouble upon you! I am—”
“Hush, child! you have that claim which poverty always
has on wealth. As for the expense, that is a mere trifle, and
I do not expect you to give me any trouble; perhaps you
may even make yourself useful to me.”
“Thank you! oh! thank you, ma'am! I am very grateful!
I can not tell you how much I thank you; but I shall try
to prove it, if you will let me stay here—on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That when I am able to pay you, you will receive the
money that my education and clothes will cost you.”
Mrs. Murray laughed, and stroked the silky black hair.
“Where did you get such proud notions? Pay me, indeed!
You poor little beggar! Ha! ha! ha! Well,
yes, you may do as you please, when you are able; but that
time is rather too distant to be considered now. Meanwhile,
quit grieving over the past, and think only of improving
yourself. I do not like doleful faces, and shall expect you
making you an entire set of new clothes, and I hope to see
you always neat. I shall give you a smaller room than this—
the one across the hall; you will keep your books there,
and remain there during study hours. At other times you
can come to my room, or amuse yourself as you like; and
when there is company here, remember, I shall always expect
you to sit quietly, and listen to the conversation, as it
is very improving to young girls to be in really good society.
You will have a music teacher, and practice on the
upright piano in the library, instead of the large one in the
parlor. One thing more if you want any thing, come to
me, and ask for it, and I shall be very much displeased if
you talk to the servants, or encourage them to talk to you.
Now every thing is understood, and I hope you will be
happy, and properly improve the advantages I shall give
you.”
Edna drew one of the white hands down to her lips and
murmured:
“Thank you—thank you! You shall never have cause to
regret your goodness; and your wishes shall always guide
me.”
“Well, well; I shall remember this promise, and trust I
may never find it necessary to remind you of it. I dare
say we shall get on very happily together. Don't thank
me any more, and hereafter we need not speak of the
matter.”
Mrs. Murray stooped, and for the first time kissed the
child's white forehead; and Edna longed to throw her arms
about the stately form, but the polished hauteur awed and
repelled her.
Before she could reply, and just as Mrs. Murray was
moving toward the door, it was thrown open, and a gentleman
strode into the room. At sight of Edna he stopped
suddenly, and dropping a bag of game on the floor, exclaimed
harshly:
“What the d—l does this mean?”
“My son! I am so glad you are at home again I was
getting quite uneasy at your long absence. This is one of
the victims of that terrible railroad disaster; the neighborhood
is full of the sufferers. Come to my room. When
did you arrive?”
She linked her arm in his, picked up the game-bag, and
led him to the adjoining room, the door of which she closed
and locked.
A painful thrill shot along Edna's nerves, and an indescribable
sensation of dread, a presentiment of coming ill,
overshadowed her heart. This was the son of her friend,
and the first glimpse of him filled her with instantaneous repugnance;
there was an innate and powerful repulsion which
she could not analyze. He was a tall, athletic man, not exactly
young, yet certainly not elderly; one of anomalous
appearance, prematurely old, and, though not one white
thread silvered his thick, waving, brown hair, the heavy
and habitual scowl on his high full brow had plowed
deep furrows such as age claims for its monogram. His
features were bold but very regular; the piercing, steel-gray
eyes were unusually large, and beautifully shaded with long,
heavy, black lashes, but repelled by their cynical glare;
and the finely-formed mouth, which might have imparted a
wonderful charm to the countenance, wore a chronic, savage
sneer, as if it only opened to utter jeers and curses. Evidently
the face had once been singularly handsome, in the
dawn of his earthly career, when his mother's good-night
kiss rested like a blessing on his smooth, boyish forehead,
and the prayer learned in the nursery still crept across his
pure lips; but now the fair chiseled lineaments were
blotted by dissipation, and blackened and distorted by the
baleful fires of a fierce, passionate nature, and a restless,
powerful, and unhallowed intellect. Symmetrical and
grand as that temple of Juno, in shrouded Pompeii, whose
polished shafts gleamed centuries ago in the morning sunshine
for nineteen hundred years; so, in the glorious flush of his
youth, this man had stood facing a noble and possibly a
sanctified future; but the ungovernable flames of sin had reduced
him, like that darkened and desecrated fane, to a
melancholy mass of ashy arches and blackened columns,
where ministering priests, all holy aspirations, slumbered
in the dust. His dress was costly but negligent, and the
red stain on his jacket told that his hunt had not been fruitless.
He wore a straw hat, belted with broad black ribbon,
and his spurred boots were damp and muddy.
What was there about this surly son of her hostess
which recalled to Edna's mind her grandfather's words,
“He is a rude, wicked, blasphemous man”? She had not
distinctly seen the face of the visitor at the shop; but something
in the impatient, querulous tone, in the hasty, haughty
step, and the proud lifting of the regal head, reminded her
painfully of him whose overbearing insolence had so unwontedly
stirred the ire of Aaron Hunt's genial and generally
equable nature. While she pondered this inexplicable
coïncidence, voices startled her from the next room,
whence the sound floated through the window.
“If you were not my mother, I should say you were a
candidate for a strait-jacket and a lunatic asylum; but as
those amiable proclivities are considered hereditary, I do
not favor that comparison. `Sorry for her,' indeed! I'll
bet my right arm it will not be six weeks before she makes
you infinitely sorrier for your deluded self; and you will
treat me to a new version of `je me regrette!' With your
knowledge of this precious world and its holy crew, I confess
it seems farcical in the extreme that open-eyed you can
venture another experiment on human nature. Some fine
morning you will rub your eyes and find your acolyte non
est; ditto, your silver forks, diamonds, and gold spoons.”
Edna felt the indignant blood burning in her cheeks, and
as she could not walk without assistance, and shrank from
ears, she coughed several times to arrest the attention of
the speakers, but apparently without effect, for the son's
voice again rose above the low tones of the mother.
“O carnival of shams! She is `pious,' you say? Then,
I'll swear my watch is not safe in my pocket, and I shall
sleep with the key of my cameo cabinet tied around my
neck. A Paris police would not insure your valuables or
mine. The fates forbid that your pen-feathered saint should
decamp with some of my costly travel-scrapings! `Pious,'
indeed! `Edna,' forsooth! No doubt her origin and
morals are quite as apocryphal as her name. Don't talk to
me about `her being providentially thrown into your
hands,' unless you desire to hear me say things which you
have frequently taken occasion to inform me `deeply grieved'
you. I daresay the little vagrant whines in what she
considers orthodox phraseology, that `God tempers the
wind to the shorn lamb!' and, like some other pious people
whom I have heard canting, will saddle some Jewish prophet
or fisherman with the dictum, thinking that it sounds
like the Bible, whereas Sterne said it. Shorn lamb, forsooth!
We, or rather you, madame, ma mère, will be
shorn—thoroughly fleeced! Pious! Ha! ha! ha!”
Here followed an earnest expostulation from Mrs. Murray,
only a few words of which were audible, and once more the
deep, strong, bitter tones rejoined:
“Interfere! Pardon me, I am only too happy to stand
aloof and watch the little wretch play out her game. Most
certainly it is your own affair, but you will permit me to
be amused, will you not? And with your accustomed
suavity forgive me, if I chance inadvertently to whisper
above my breath, `Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle'?
What the deuce do you suppose I care about her `faith'?
She may run through the whole catalogue from the mustard-seed
size up, as far as I am concerned, and you may make
vagrant!”
“St. Elmo! my son! promise me that you will not scoff
and sneer at her religion; at least in her presence,” pleaded
the mother.
A ringing, mirthless laugh was the only reply that reached
the girl, as she put her fingers in her ears and hid her face
on the window-sill.
It was no longer possible to doubt the identity of the
stranger; the initials on the fly-leaf meant St. Elmo Murray;
and she knew that in the son of her friend and protectress
she had found the owner of her Dante and the man who had
cursed her grandfather for his tardiness. If she had only
known this one hour earlier, she would have declined the
offer, which once accepted, she knew not how to reject,
without acquainting Mrs. Murray with the fact that she
had overheard the conversation; and yet she could not
endure the prospect of living under the same roof with a
man whom she loathed and feared. The memory of the
blacksmith's aversion to this stranger intensified her own;
and as she pondered in shame and indignation the scornful
and opprobrious epithets which he had bestowed on herself,
she muttered through her set teeth:
“Yes, Grandy! he is cruel and wicked; and I never can
bear to look at or speak to him! How dared he curse my
dear, dear, good grandpa! How can I ever be respectful to
him, when he is not even respectful to his own mother! Oh!
I wish I had never come here! I shall always hate him!”
At this juncture Hagar entered, and lifted her back to
her couch; and, remarking the agitation of her manner,
the nurse said gravely, as she put her fingers on the girl's
pulse:
“What has flushed you so? Your face is hot; you have
tired yourself sitting up too long. Did a gentleman come
into this room a while ago?”
“Yes, Mrs. Murray's son.”
“Did Miss Ellen—that is, my mistress—tell you that you
were to live here, and get your education?”
“Yes, she offered to take care of me for a few years.”
“Well, I am glad it is fixed, so—you can stay; for you
can be a great comfort to Miss Ellen, if you try to please
her.”
She paused, and busied herself about the room, and remembering
Mrs. Murray's injunction that she should discourage
conversation on the part of the servants, Edna
turned her face to the wall and shut her eyes. But for
once Hagar's habitual silence and non-committalism were
laid aside; and, stooping over the couch, she said hurriedly:
“Listen to me, child, for I like your patient ways, and
want to give you a friendly warning; you are a stranger in
this house, and might stumble into trouble. Whatever else
you do, be sure not to cross Mass Elmo's path! Keep out
of his way, and he will keep out of yours; for he is shy
enough of strangers, and would walk a mile to keep from
meeting any body; but if he finds you in his way, he will
walk roughshod right over you—trample you. Nothing
ever stops him one minute when he makes up his mind. He
does not even wait to listen to his mother, and she is about
the only person who dares to talk to him. He hates every
body and every thing; but he doesn't tread on folks' toes
unless they are where they don't belong. He is like a rattlesnake
that crawls in his own track, and bites every thing that
meddles or crosses his trail. Above every thing, child, for
the love of peace and heaven, don't argue with him! If he
says black is white, don't contradict him; and if he swears
water runs up-stream, let him swear, and don't know it runs
down. Keep out of his sight, and you will do well enough;
but once make him mad and you had better fight Satan
hand to hand with red-hot pitchforks! Every body is afraid
of him, and gives way to him, and you must do like the
balance that have to deal with him. I nursed him; but I
would rather put my head in a wolf's jaws than stir him
instead of living to grow up the sinful, swearing, raging
devil he is! Now mind what I say. I am not given to
talking, but this time it is for your good. Mind what I tell
you, child; and if you want to have peace, keep out of his
way.”
She left the room abruptly, and the orphan lay in the
gathering gloom of twilight, perplexed, distressed, and
wondering how she could avoid all the angularities of this
amiable character, under whose roof fate seemed to have
deposited her.
| CHAPTER IV. St. Elmo | |