University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

AT length, by the aid of crutches, Edna was
able to leave the room where she had been so
long confined, and explore the house in which
every day discovered some new charm. The
parlors and sitting-room opened on a long, arched verandah,
which extended around two sides of the building,
and was paved with variegated tiles; while the stained-glass
doors of the dining-room, with its lofty frescoed ceiling
and deep bow-windows, led by two white marble steps
out on the terrace, whence two more steps showed the beginning
of a serpentine gravel walk winding down to an
octagonal hot-house, surmounted by a richly carved pagodaroof.
Two sentinel statues—a Bacchus and Bacchante—
placed on the terrace, guarded the entrance to the dining-room;
and in front of the house, where a sculptured Triton
threw jets of water into a gleaming circular basin, a pair
of crouching monsters glared from the steps. When Edna
first found herself before these grim doorkeepers, she
started back in unfeigned terror, and could scarcely repress
a cry of alarm, for the howling rage and despair of the
distorted hideous heads seemed fearfully real, and years
elapsed before she comprehended their significance, or the
sombre mood which impelled their creation. They were
imitations of that monumental lion's head, raised on the
battle-field of Chæroneia, to commemorate the Bœotians
slain. In the rear of and adjoining the library, a narrow,
vaulted passage with high Gothic windows of stained

glass, opened into a beautifully proportioned rotunda; and
beyond this circular apartment with its ruby-tinted sky-light
and Moresque frescoes, extended two other rooms, of
whose shape or contents Edna knew nothing, save the tall
arched windows that looked down on the terrace. The
door of the rotunda was generally closed, but accidentally
it stood open one morning, and she caught a glimpse of the
circular form and the springing dome. Evidently this portion
of the mansion had been recently built, while the remainder
of the house had been constructed many years
earlier; but all desire to explore it was extinguished when
Mrs. Murray remarked one day:

“That passage leads to my son's apartments, and he dislikes
noise or intrusion.”

Thenceforth Edna avoided it as if the plagues of Pharaoh
were pent therein. To her dazzled eyes this luxurious home
was a fairy palace, an enchanted region, and, with eager
curiosity and boundless admiration, she gazed upon beautiful
articles whose use she could not even conjecture. The
furniture throughout the mansion was elegant and costly;
pictures, statues, bronzes, marble, silver, rosewood, ebony,
mosaics, satin, velvet—naught that the most fastidious and
cultivated taste or dilettanteism could suggest, or lavish
expenditure supply, was wanting; while the elaborate and
beautiful arrangement of the extensive grounds showed with
how prodigal a hand the owner squandered a princely
fortune. The flower-garden and lawn comprised fifteen
acres, and the subdivisions were formed entirely by hedges,
save that portion of the park, surrounded by a tall iron
railing, where congregated a motley menagerie of deer,
bison, a Lapland reindeer, a Peruvian llama, some Cashmere
goats, a chamois, wounded and caught on the Jungfrau,
and a large white cow from Ava. This part of the
inclosure was thickly studded with large oaks, groups of
beech and elm, and a few enormous cedars which would
not have shamed their sacred prototypes sighing in Syrian

breezes along the rocky gorges of Lebanon. The branches
were low and spreading, and even at mid-day the sunshine
barely freckled the cool, mossy knolls where the animals
sought refuge from the summer heat of the open and
smoothly-shaven lawn. Here and there, on the soft, green
sward, was presented that vegetable antithesis, a circlet
of martinet poplars standing vis-a-vis to a clump of willows,
whose long hair threw quivering, fringy shadows when the
slanting rays of dying sunlight burnished the white and
purple petals nestling among the clover tufts. Rustic
seats of bark, cane, and metal were scattered through the
grounds, and where the well-trimmed numerous hedges
divided the parterre, china, marble, and iron vases of varied
mould held rare creepers and lovely exotics; and rich
masses of roses swung their fragrant chalices of crimson and
gold, rivaling the glory of Pæstum and of Bendemeer. The
elevation upon which the house was placed commanded an
extensive view of the surrounding country. Far away to
the north-east purplish gray waves along the sky showed
the range of lofty hills, whose rocky battlements were not
yet scarred and branded by the red hand of fratricidal war;
and in an easterly direction, scarcely two miles distant,
glittering spires told where the village clung to the railroad,
and to a deep rushing creek, whose sinuous course
was distinctly marked by the dense growth that clothed
its steep banks. Now and then luxuriant fields of corn
covered the level lands with an emerald mantle, while
sheep and cattle roamed through the adjacent champaign;
and in the calm, cool morning air, a black smoke-serpent
crawled above the tree-tops, mapping out the track over
which the long train of cars darted and thundered. Mr.
Paul Murray, the first proprietor of the estate, and father of
the present owner, had early in life spent much time in
France, where, espousing the royalist cause, his sympathies
were fully enlisted by the desperate daring of Charette,
Stofflet, and Cathelineau. On his return to his native land
his admiration of the heroism of those who dwelt upon the
Loire, found expression in one of their sobriquets, “Le
Bocage,” which he gave to his country residence; and certainly
the venerable groves that surrounded it justified the
application. While his own fortune was handsome and
abundant, he married the orphan of a rich banker, who survived
her father only a short time, and died leaving Mr.
Murray childless. After a few years, when the frosts of
age fell upon his head, he married a handsome and very
wealthy widow; but, unfortunately, having lost their first
child, a daughter, he lived only long enough to hear the
infantile prattle of his son, St. Elmo, to whom he bequeathed
an immense fortune, which many succeeding
years of reckless expenditure had failed to materially impair.
Such was “Le Bocage,” naturally a beautiful situation,
improved and embellished with every thing which
refined taste and world-wide travel could suggest to the
fastidious owner. But not withstanding the countless charms
of the home so benevolently offered to her, the blacksmith's
granddaughter was conscious of a great need, scarcely to
be explained, yet fully felt—the dreary lack of that which
she had yet to learn could not be purchased by the treasures
of Oude—the priceless peace and genial glow which
only the contented, happy hearts of its inmates can diffuse
over even a palatial homestead. She also realized, without
analyzing the fact, that the majestic repose and boundless
spontaneity of nature yielded a sense of companionship almost
of tender, dumb sympathy, which all the polished artificialities
and recherché arrangements of man utterly failed
to furnish. While dazzled by the glitter and splendor of “Le
Bocage,” she shivered in its silent dreariness, its cold, aristocratic
formalism, and she yearned for the soft, musical
babble of the spring-branch, where, standing ankle-deep in
water under the friendly shadow of Lookout, she had spent
long, blissful July days in striving to build a wall of rounded
pebbles down which the crystal ripples would fall, a miniature
Talulah or Tuccoa. The chrism of nature had anointed
her early life and consecrated her heart, but fate brought
her to the vestibule of the temple of Mammon, and its defiling
incense floated about her. How long would the consecration
last? As she slowly limped about the house and
grounds, acquainting herself with the details, she was impressed
with the belief that happiness had once held her
court here, had been dethroned, exiled, and now waited beyond
the confines of the park, anxious but unable to renew
her reign and expel usurping gloom. For some weeks after
her arrival she took her meals in her own room, and having
learned to recognize the hasty, heavy tread of the dreaded
master of the house, she invariably fled from the sound of
his steps as she would have shunned an ogre; consequently
her knowledge of him was limited to the brief inspection
and uncomplimentary conversation which introduced him
to her acquaintance on the day of his return. Her habitual
avoidance and desire of continued concealment was, however,
summarily thwarted when Mrs. Murray came into her
room late one night, and asked:

“Did not I see you walking this afternoon without your
crutches?”

“Yes, ma'am, I was trying to see if I could not do without
them entirely.”

“Did the experiment cause you any pain?”

“No pain exactly, but I find my ankle still weak.”

“Be careful not to overstrain it; by degrees it will
strengthen, if you use it moderately. By the by, you are
now well enough to come to the table; and from breakfast
to-morrow you will take your meals with us in the dining-room.”

A shiver of apprehension seized Edna, and in a frightened
tone she ejaculated:

“Ma'am!”

“I say, in future you will eat at the table instead of here
in this room.”

“If you please, Mrs. Murray, I would rather stay here.'

“Pray what possible objection can you have to the
dining-room?”

Edna averted her head, but wrung her fingers nervously.

Mrs. Murray frowned, and continued gravely:

“Don't be silly, Edna. It is proper that you should go
to the table, and learn to eat with a fork instead of a knife.
You need not be ashamed to meet people; there is nothing
clownish about you, unless you affect it. Good night; I
shall see you at breakfast; the bell rings at eight o'clock.”

There was no escape, and she awoke next morning oppressed
with the thought of the ordeal that awaited her.
She dressed herself even more carefully than usual, despite
the trembling of her hands; and when the ringing of the
little silver bell summoned her to the dining-room, her heart
seemed to stand still. But though exceedingly sensitive
and shy, Edna was brave, and even self-possessed, and she
promptly advanced to meet the trial.

Entering the room, she saw that her benefactress had not
yet come in, but was approaching the house with a basket
of flowers in her hand; and one swift glance around discovered
Mr. Murray standing at the window. Unobserved
she scanned the tall, powerful figure clad in a suit of white
linen, and saw that he wore no beard save the heavy but
closely-trimmed moustache, which now, in some degree,
concealed the harshness about the handsome mouth. Only
his profile was turned toward her, and she noticed that,
while his forehead was singularly white, his cheeks and
chin were thoroughly bronzed from exposure.

As Mrs. Murray came in, she nodded to her young protégée,
and approached the table, saying:

“Good morning! It seems I am the laggard to-day, but
Nicholas had mislaid the flower-shears, and detained me.
Hereafter I shall turn over this work of dressing vases to
you, child. My son, this is your birthday, and here is your
button-hole souvenir.”

She fastened a few sprigs of white jasmine in his linen
coat, and, as he thanked her briefly and turned to the
table, she said, with marked emphasis:

“St. Elmo, let me introduce you to Edna Earl.”

He looked around, and fixed his keen eyes on the orphan,
whose cheeks crimsoned as she looked down and said quite
distinctly:

“Good morning, Mr. Murray.”

“Good morning, Miss Earl.”

“No, I protest! `Miss Earl,' indeed! Call the child
Edna.”

“As you please, mother, provided you do not let the coffee
and chocolate get cold while you decide the momentous
question.”

Neither spoke again for some time, and in the embarrassing
silence Edna kept her eyes on the china, wondering if
all their breakfasts would be like this. At last Mr. Murray
pushed away his large coffee-cup, and said abruptly:

“After all, it is only one year to-day since I came back
to America, though it seems much longer. It will soon be
time to prepare for my trip to the South Sea Islands. The
stagnation here is intolerable.”

An expression of painful surprise flitted across the
mother's countenance, but she answered quickly:

“It has been an exceedingly short, happy year to me.
You are such a confirmed absentee that, when you are at
home, time slips by unnoticed.”

“But few and far between as my visits are, they certainly
never approach the angelic. `Welcome the coming, speed
the parting guest,' must frequently recur to you.”

Before his mother could reply he rose, ordered his horse,
and as he drew on his gloves, and left the room, looked over
his shoulder, saying indifferently, “That box of pictures
from Munich is at the depot; I directed Henry to go over
after it this morning. I will open it when I come home.”

A moment after he passed the window on horseback,

and with a heavy sigh Mrs. Murray dropped her head on
her hand, compressing her lips, and toying abstractedly
with the sugar-tongs.

Edna watched the grave, troubled countenance for some
seconds, and then putting her hand on the flower-basket,
she asked softly:

“Shall I dress the flower-pots?”

“Yes, child, in four rooms; this, the parlors, and the
library. Always cut the flowers very early, while the dew
is on them.”

Her eyes went back to the sugar-tongs, and Edna joyfully
escaped from a room whose restraints and associations were
irksome.

Impressed by Hagar's vehement adjuration to keep out
of Mr. Murray's path, she avoided those portions of the
house to which he seemed most partial, and thus, although
they continued to meet at meals, no words passed between
them, after that brief salutation on the morning of presentation.
Very often she was painfully conscious that his
searching eyes scrutinized her; but though the blood
mounted instantly to her cheeks at such times, she never
looked up—dreading his gaze as she would that of a basilisk.
One sultry afternoon she went into the park, and
threw herself down on the long grass, under a clump of
cedars, near which the deer and bison were quietly browsing,
while the large white merinoes huddled in the shade
and blinked at the sun. Opening a pictorial history of
England, which she had selected from the library, she
spread it on the grass, and leaning her face in her palms,
rested her elbows on the ground, and began to read.
Now and then she paused as she turned a leaf, to look
around at the beautiful animals, each one of which might
have served as a model for Landseer or Rosa Bonheur.
Gradually the languor of the atmosphere stole into her busy
brain; as the sun crept down the sky, her eyelids sunk with
it, and very soon she was fast asleep, with her head on the

book, and her cheeks flushed almost to a vermilion hue.
From that brief summer dream she was aroused by some
sudden noise, and starting up, saw the sheep bounding far
away, while a large, gaunt, wolfish, gray dog snuffed at
her hands and face. Once before she had seen him chained
near the stables, and Hagar told her he was “very dangerous,”
and was never loosed except at night; consequently,
the expression of his fierce, red eyes, as he stood over her,
was well calculated to alarm her; but at that instant Mr.
Murray's voice thundered:

“Keep still! don't move! or you will be torn to pieces!”
Then followed some rapid interjections and vehement
words in the same unintelligible dialect which had so
puzzled her once before, when her grandfather could not
control the horse he was attempting to shoe. The dog was
sullen and unmanageable, keeping his black muzzle close to
her face, and she grew pale with terror as she noticed that
his shaggy breast and snarling jaws were dripping with
blood.

Leaping from his horse, Mr. Murray strode up, and with
a quick movement seized the heavy brass collar of the savage
creature, hurled him back on his haunches, and held
him thus, giving vent the while to a volley of oaths.

Pointing to a large, half-decayed elm branch, lying at a
little distance, he tightened his grasp on the collar, and said
to the still trembling girl:

“Bring me that stick, yonder.”

Edna complied, and there ensued a scene of cursing,
thrashing, and howling, that absolutely sickened her. The
dog writhed, leaped, whined, and snarled; but the iron hold
was not relaxed, and the face of the master rivaled in rage
that of the brute, which seemed as ferocious as the hounds
of Gian Maria Visconti, fed with human flesh, by Squarcia
Giramo. Distressed by the severity and duration of the
punishment, and without pausing to reflect, or to remember
Hagar's warning, Edna interposed:

“Oh! please don't whip him any more! It is cruel to
beat him so!”

Probably he did not hear her, and the blows fell thicker
than before. She drew near, and, as the merciless arm was
raised to strike, she seized it with both hands, and swung
on with her whole weight, repeating her words. If one of
his meek, frightened sheep had sprung at his throat to
throttle him, Mr. Murray would not have been more astounded.
He shook her off, threw her from him, but she carried
the stick in her grasp.

“D—n you! how dare you interfere! What is it to
you if I cut his throat, which I mean to do!”

“That will be cruel and sinful, for he does not know it is
wrong; and besides, he did not bite me.”

She spoke resolutely, and for the first time ventured to
look straight into his flashing eyes.

“Did not bite you! Did not he worry down and mangle
one of my finest Southdowns? It would serve you
right for your impertinent meddling, if I let him tear you
limb from limb!”

“He knows no better,” she answered firmly.

“Then, by G—d, I will teach him! Hand me that
stick!”

“Oh! please, Mr. Murray! You have nearly put out one
of his eyes already!”

“Give me the stick, I tell you, or I—”

He did not finish the threat, but held out his hand with a
peremptory gesture.

Edna gave one swift glance around, saw that there were
no other branches within reach, saw too that the dog's face
was swelling and bleeding from its bruises, and, bending
the stick across her knee, she snapped it into three pieces,
which she threw as far as her strength would permit.
There was a brief pause, broken only by the piteous howling
of the suffering creature, and, as she began to realize
what she had done, Edna's face reddened, and she put her

hands over her eyes to shut out the vision of the enraged
man, who was absolutely dumb with indignant astonishment.
Presently a sneering laugh caused her to look
through her fingers, and she saw “Ali,” the dog, now released,
fawning and whining at his master's feet.

“Aha! The way of all natures, human as well as brute.
Pet and fondle and pamper them, they turn under your
caressing hand and bite you; but bruise and trample them,
and instantly they are on their knees licking the feet that
kicked them. Begone! you bloodthirsty devil! I'll settle
the account at the kennel. Buffon is a fool, and Pennant
was right after all; the blood of the jackal pricks up your
ears.”

He spurned the crouching culprit, and as it slunk away
in the direction of the house, Edna found herself alone, face
to face with the object of her aversion, and she almost
wished that the earth would open and swallow her. Mr.
Murray came close to her, held her hands down with one
of his, and placing the other under her chin, forced her to
look at him.

“How dare you defy and disobey me?”

“I did not defy you, sir, but I could not help you to do
what was wrong and cruel.”

“I am the judge of my actions, and neither ask your help
nor intend to permit your interference with what does not
concern you.”

“God is the judge of mine, sir, and if I had obeyed you
I should have been guilty of all you wished to do with that
stick. I don't want to interfere, sir. I try to keep out of
your way, and I am very sorry I happened to come here
this evening. I did not dream of meeting you; I thought
you had gone to town.”

He read all her aversion in her eyes, which strove to
avoid his, and smiling grimly, he continued: “You evidently
think that I am the very devil himself, walking the
earth like a roaring lion. Mind your own affairs hereafter,

and when I give you a positive order obey it, for I am
master here, and my word is law. Meddling or disobedience
I neither tolerate nor forgive. Do you understand
me?”

“I shall not meddle, sir.”

“That means that you will not obey me unless you think
proper?”

She was silent, and her beautiful soft eyes filled with tears.

“Answer me!”

“I have nothing to say that you would like to hear.”

“What? Out with it!”

“You would have a right to think me impertinent if I
said any more.”

“No, I swear I will not devour you, say what you may.”

She shook her head, and the motion brought two tears
down on her cheeks.

“Oh! you are one of the stubborn sweet saints, whose
lips even Torquemada's red-hot steel fingers could not
open. Child, do you hate or dread me most? Answer
that question.”

He took his own handkerchief and wiped away the tears.

“I am sorry for you, sir,” she said in a low voice.

He threw his head back and laughed derisively.

“Sorry for me? For me? Me? The owner of as
many thousands as there are hairs on your head! Keep
your pity for your poverty-stricken vagrant self! Why
the deuce are you sorry for me?”

She withdrew her hands, which he seemed to hold unconsciously,
and answered:

“Because, with all your money, you never will be happy.”

“And what the d—l do I care for happiness? I am
not such a fool as to expect it; and yet after all, `Out of
the mouths of babes and sucklings.' Pshaw! I am a fool
nevertheless to waste words on you. Stop! What do
you think of my park, and the animals? I notice you often
come here.”

“The first time I saw it, I thought of Noah and the ark,
with two of every living thing; but an hour ago it seemed
to me more like the garden of Eden, where the animals all
lay down together in peace, before sin came into it.”

“And Ali and I entered, like Satan, and completed the
vision? Thank you, considering the fact that you are on
my premises, and know something of my angelic, sanctified
temper, I must say you indulge in bold flights of imagery.”

“I did not say that, sir.”

“You thought it nevertheless. Don't be hypocritical!
Is not that what you thought of?”

She made no reply, and anxious to terminate an interview
painfully embarrassing to her, stepped forward to pick
up the history which lay on the grass.

“What book is that?”

She handed it to him, and the leaves happened to open at
a picture representing the murder of Becket. A scowl
blackened his face as he glanced at it, and turned away
muttering:

“Malice prepense! or the devil!”

At a little distance, leisurely cropping the long grass,
stood his favorite horse, whose arched forehead and peculiar
mouse-color proclaimed his unmistakable descent
from the swift hordes that scour the Kirghise steppes, and
sanctioned the whim which induced his master to call him
“Tamerlane.” As Mr. Murray approached his horse, Edna
walked away toward the house, fearing that he might
overtake her; but no sound of hoofs reached her ears, and
looking back as she crossed the avenue and entered the
flower-garden, she saw horse and rider standing where she
left them, and wondered why Mr. Murray was so still, with
one arm on the neck of his Tartar pet, and his own head
bent down on his hand.

In reflecting upon what had occurred, she felt her repugnance
increase, and began to think that they could not live
in the same house without continual conflicts, which would

force her to abandon the numerous advantages now within her
grasp. The only ray of hope that darted through her mind
when she recalled his allusion to a contemplated visit to
the South Sea Islands, and the possibility of his long absence.
Insensibly her dislike of the owner extended to every thing
he handled, and much as she had enjoyed the perusal of
Dante, she determined to lose no time in restoring the lost
volume, which she felt well assured his keen eyes would
recognize the first time she inadvertently left it in the
library or the greenhouse. The doubt of her honesty,
which he had expressed to his mother, rankled in the orphan's
memory, and for some days she had been nerving
herself to anticipate a discovery of the book by voluntarily
restoring it. The rencontre in the park by no means diminished
her dread of addressing him on this subject; but
she resolved that the rendition of Cæsar's things to Cæsar
should take place that evening before she slept.