University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

ONE afternoon, about a week after Mr. Leigh's
last visit, as Edna returned from the parsonage,
where she had been detained beyond the usual
time, Mrs. Murray placed in her hand a note
from Mrs. Inge, inviting both to dine with her that day, and
meet some distinguished friends from a distant State. Mrs.
Murray had already completed an elaborate toilet, and desired
Edna to lose no time in making the requisite changes
in her own dress. The latter took off her hat, laid her books
down on a table, and said:

“Please offer my excuses to Mrs. Inge. I can not accept
the invitation, and hope you will not urge me.”

“Nonsense! Let me hear no more such childish stuff,
and get ready at once; we shall be too late, I am afraid.”

The orphan leaned against the mantel-piece and shook
her head.

Mrs. Murray colored angrily and drew herself up haughtily.

“Edna Earl, did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, madam, but this time I can not obey you. Allow
me to give you my reasons, and I am sure you will forgive
what may now seem mere obstinacy. On the night of the
party given by Mrs. Inge I determined, under no circumstances,
to accept any future invitations to her house, for I
overheard a conversation between Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Montgomery
which I believe was intended to reach my ears,
and consequently wounded and mortified me very much.

I was ridiculed and denounced as a `poor upstart and interloper,'
who was being smuggled into society far above my
position in life, and pronounced an avaricious schemer, intent
on thrusting myself upon Mr. Leigh's notice, and ambitious
of marrying him for his fortune. They sneered at
the idea that we should study Hebrew with Mr. Hammond,
and declared it a mere trap to catch Mr. Leigh. Now,
Mrs. Murray, you know that I never had such a thought,
and the bare mention of a motive so sordid, contemptible,
and unwomanly surprised and disgusted me; but I resolved
to study Hebrew by myself, and to avoid meeting Mr.
Leigh at the parsonage; for if his sister's friends entertain
such an opinion of me, I know not what other people, and
even Mrs. Inge, may think. Those two ladies added some
other things equally unpleasant and untrue, and as I see
that they are also invited to dine to-day, it would be very
disagreeable for me to meet them in Mr. Leigh's presence.”

Mrs. Murray frowned, and her lips curled, as she clasped
a diamond bracelet on her arm.

“I have long since ceased to be surprised by any mani
festation of Mrs. Montgomery's insolence. She doubtless
judges your motives by those of her snub-nosed and excruciatingly
fashionable daughter, Maud, who, rumor says,
is paying most devoted attention to that same fortune of
Gordon's. I shall avail myself of the first suitable occasion
to suggest to her that it is rather unbecoming in persons
whose fathers were convicted of forgery, and hunted out of
the State, to lay such stress on the mere poverty of young
aspirants for admission into society. I have always noticed
that people (women especially) whose lineage is enveloped
in a certain twilight haze, constitute themselves guardians
of the inviolability of their pretentious cliques, and fly at
the throats of those who, they imagine, desire to enter their
fashionable set—their `mutual admiration association.'
As for Mrs. Hill, whose parents were positively respectable,
even genteel, I expected less nervousness from her on

the subject of genealogy, and should have given her credit
for more courtesy and less malice; but, poor thing, nature
denied her any individuality, and she serves `her circle'
in the same capacity as one of those tin reflectors fastened
on locomotives. All that you heard was excessively ill-bred,
and in really good society ill-breeding is more iniquitous
than ill-nature; but, however annoying, it is beneath your
notice, and unworthy of consideration. I would not gratify
them by withdrawing from a position which you can so
gracefully occupy.”

“It is no privation to me to stay at home; on the contrary,
I prefer it, for I would not exchange the companionship
of the books in this house for all the dinners that ever
were given.”

“There is no necessity for you to make a recluse of yourself
simply because two rude, silly gossips disgrace themselves.
You have time enough to read and study, and still
go out with me when I consider it advisable.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Murray, my position in your family,
as an unknown dependent on your charity, subjects me
to—”

“Is a matter which does not concern Mesdames Hill and
Montgomery, as I shall most unequivocally intimate to
them. I insist upon the dismissal of the whole affair from
your mind. How much longer do you intend to keep me
waiting?”

“I am very sorry you can not view the subject from my
standpoint, but hereafter I can not accompany you to
dinners and parties. Whenever you desire me to see company
in your own house, I shall be glad to comply with
your wishes and commands; but my self-respect will not
permit me to go out to meet people who barely tolerate
me through fear of offending you. It is exceedingly painful,
dear Mrs. Murray, for me to have to appear disrespectful
and stubborn toward you, but in this instance I can not
comply with your wishes.”

They looked at each other steadily, and Mrs. Murray's
brow cleared and her lip unbent.

“What do you expect me to tell Mrs. Inge?”

“That I return my thanks for her very kind remembrance,
but am closely occupied in preparing myself to teach, and
have no time for gayeties.”

Mrs. Murray smiled significantly.

“Do you suppose that excuse will satisfy your friend
Gordon? He will fly for consolation to the stereotyped
smile and delicious flattery of simpering Miss Maud.”

“I care not where he flies, provided I am left in peace.”

“Stop, my dear child; you do not mean what you say.
You know very well that you earnestly hope Gordon will
escape the tender mercies of silly Maud and the machinations
of her most amiable mamma; if you don't, I do. Understand
that you are not to visit Susan Montgomery's sins
on Gordon's head. I shall come home early, and make you
go to bed at nine o'clock, to punish you for your obstinacy.
By the by, Edna, Hagar tells me that you frequently sit up
till three or four o'clock, poring over those heathenish documents
in my son's cabinet. This is absurd, and will ruin
your health; and beside, I doubt if what you learn is worth
your trouble. You must not sit up longer than ten o'clock.
Give me my furs.”

Edna ate her dinner alone, and went into the library to
practise a difficult music lesson; but the spell of her new
project was stronger than the witchery of music, and
closing the piano, she ran into the “Egyptian Museum,” as
Mrs. Murray termed her son's sitting-room.

The previous night she had been reading an account of
the doctrines of Zoroaster, in which there was an attempt
to trace all the chief features of the Zendavesta to the Old
Testament and the Jews, and now she returned to the subject
with unflagging interest.

Pushing a cushioned chair close to the window, she
wrapped her shawl around her, put her feet on the round

of a neighboring chair, to keep them from the icy floor
and gave herself up to the perusal of the volume.

The sun went down in a wintry sky; the solemn red
light burning on the funeral pyre of day streamed through
the undraped windows, flushed the fretted façade of the
Taj Mahal, glowed on the marble floor, and warmed and
brightened the serene, lovely face of the earnest young student.
As the flame faded in the west, where two stars
leaped from the pearly ashes, the fine print of Edna's book
grew dim, and she turned the page to catch the mellow, silvery
radiance of the full moon, which, shining low in the
east, threw a ghastly lustre on the awful form and floating
white hair of the Cimbrian woman on the wall. But between
the orphan and the light, close beside her chair, stood
a tall, dark figure, with uncovered head and outstretched
hands.

She sprang to her feet, uttering a cry of mingled alarm
and delight, for she knew that erect, stately form and regal
head could belong to but one person.

“O Mr. Murray! Can it be possible that you have indeed
come home to your sad, desolate mother? Oh! for
her sake I am so glad!”

She had clasped her hands tightly in the first instant of
surprise, and stood looking at him, with fear and pleasure
struggling for mastery in her eloquent countenance.

“Edna, have you no word of welcome, no friendly hand,
to offer a man who has been wandering for four long
years among strangers in distant lands?”

It was not the harsh, bitter voice whose mocking echoes
had haunted her ears during his absence, but a tone so
low and deep and mournful, so inexplicably sweet, that she
could not recognize it as his, and, unable to utter a word,
she put her hand in his outstretched palm. His fingers
closed over it with a pressure that was painful, and her eyes
fell beneath the steady, searching gaze he fixed on her
face.

For fully a minute they stood motionless; then he took
a match from his pocket, lighted a gas globe that hung over
the Taj, and locked the door leading into the rotundo.

“My mother is dining out, Hagar informed me. Tell me
is she well? And have you made her happy while I was
far away?”

He came back, leaned his elbow on the carved top of
the cushioned chair, and partially shading his eyes with his
hand, looked down into the girl's face.

“Your mother is very well indeed, but anxious and unhappy
on your account, and I think you will find her thinner
and paler than when you saw her last.”

“Then you have not done your duty, as I requested?”

“I could not take your place, sir, and your last letter led
her to believe that you would be absent for another year.
She thinks that at this instant you are in the heart of Persia.
Last night, when the servant came from the post-office
without the letter which she confidently expected, her eyes
filled with tears, and she said, `He has ceased to think of
his home, and loves the excitement of travel better than his
mother's peace of mind.' Why did you deceive her?
Why did you rob her of all the joy of anticipating your
speedy return?”

As she glanced at him, she saw the old scowl settling
heavily between his eyes, and the harshness had crept back
to the voice that answered:

“I did not deceive her. It was a sudden and unexpected
circumstance that determined my return. Moreover, she
should long since have accustomed herself to find happiness
from other sources than my society; for no one knows better
my detestation of settling down in any fixed habitation.”

Edna felt all her childish repugnance sweeping over her
as she saw the swift hardening of his features, and she
turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To send a messenger to your mother, acquainting her

with your arrival. She would not forgive me if I failed to
give her such good tidings at the very earliest moment.”

“You will do no such thing. I forbid any message. She
thinks me in the midst of Persian ruins, and can afford to
wait an hour longer among her friends. How happened it
that you also are not at Mrs. Inge's?”

Either the suddenness of the question, or the intentness
of his scrutiny, or the painful consciousness of the true
cause of her failure to accept the invitation, brought back
the blood which surprise had driven from her cheeks.

“I preferred remaining at home.”

“Home! home!” he repeated, and continued vehemently:
“Do you really expect me to believe that a girl of your
age, with the choice of a dinner-party among the élite, with
lace, silk, and feathers, champagne, bon-mot, and scandal,
flattering speeches and soft looks from young gentlemen,
biting words and hard looks from old ladies, or the alternative
of a dull, lonely evening in this cold, dreary den of
mine, shut up with mummies, MSS., and musty books, could
deliberately decline the former and voluntarily select the
latter? Such an anomaly in sociology, such a lusus naturœ,
might occur in Bacon's `Bensalem,' or in some undiscovered
and unimagined realm, where the men are all brave,
honest, and true, and the women conscientious and constant!
But here! and now? Ah! pardon me! Impossible!”

Edna felt as if Momus' suggestion to Vulcan, of a window
in the human breast, whereby one's thoughts might be
rendered visible, had been adopted; for, under the empaling
eye bent upon her, the secret motives of her conduct seemed
spread out as on a scroll, which he read at will.

“I was invited to Mrs. Inge's, yet you find me here, because
I preferred a quiet evening at home to a noisy one
elsewhere. How do you explain the contradiction if you
disbelieve my words?”

“I am not so inexperienced as to tax my ingenuity with
any such burden. With the Penelope web of female motives

may fates and furies forbid rash meddling! Unless
human nature here in America has undergone a radical
change, nay, a most complete transmogrification, since I
abjured it some years ago; unless this year is to be chronicled
as an Avatar of truth and unselfishness, I will stake
all my possessions on the assertion that some very peculiar
and cogent reason, something beyond the desire to prosecute
archæological researches, has driven you to decline
the invitation.”

She made no reply, but opened the bookcase and replaced
the volume which she had been reading; and he saw
that she glanced uneasily toward the door, as if longing to
escape.

“Are you insulted at my presumption in thus catechising
you?”

“I am sorry, sir, to find that you have lost none of your
cynicism in your travels.”

“Do you regard travelling as a panacea for minds diseased?”

She looked up and smiled in his face—a smile so bright
and arch and merry, that even a stone might have caught
the glow.

“Certainly not, Mr. Murray, as you are the most incorrigible
traveller I have ever known.”

But there was no answering gleam on his darkening
countenance as he watched her, and the brief silence that
ensued was annoying to his companion, who felt less at
ease every moment, and convinced that with such antagonisms
of character existing between them, all her peaceful,
happy days at Le Bocage were drawing to a close.

“Mr. Murray, I am cold, and I should like to go to the
fire if you have no more questions to ask, and will be so
kind as to unlock the door.”

He glanced round the room, and taking his grey traveling
shawl from a chair where he had thrown it, laid it in a
heap on the marble tiles, and said:

“Yes, this floor is icy. Stand on the shawl, though I
am well aware you are more tired of me than of the
room.”

Another long pause followed, and then St. Elmo Murray
came close to his companion, saying:

“For four long years I have been making an experiment
—one of those experiments which men frequently attempt,
believing all the time that it is worse than child's play, and
half hoping that it will prove so and sanction the wisdom
of their skepticism concerning the result. When I left
home I placed in your charge the key of my private desk
or cabinet, exacting the promise that only upon certain
conditions would you venture to open it. Those contingencies
have not arisen, consequently there can be no justification
for your having made yourself acquainted with
the contents of the vault. I told you I trusted the key in
your hands; I did not. I felt assured you would betray
the confidence. It was not a trust—it was a temptation,
which I believed no girl or woman would successfully resist.
I am here to receive an account of your stewardship, and
I tell you now I doubt you. Where is the key?”

She took from her pocket a small ivory box, and opening
it drew out the little key and handed it to him.

“Mr. Murray, it was a confidence which I never solicited,
which has caused me much pain, because it necessitated
concealment from your mother, but which—God is my witness—I
have not betrayed. There is the key, but of the
contents of the tomb I know nothing. It was ungenerous
in you to tempt a child as you did; to offer a premium as
it were for a violation of secrecy, by whetting my curiosity
and then placing in my own hands the means of gratifying
it. Of course I have wondered what the mystery was, and
why you selected me for its custodian; and I have often
wished to inspect the interior of that marble cabinet; but
child though I was, I think I would have gone to the stake
sooner than violate my promise.”

As he took the key she observed that his hand trembled
and that a sudden pallor overspread his face.

“Edna Earl, I give you one last chance to be truthful
with me. If you yielded to the temptation—and what
woman, what girl, would not?—it would be no more than I
really expected, and you will scarcely have disappointed
me; for as I told you, I put no faith in you. But even if
you succumbed to a natural curiosity, be honest and confess
it!”

She looked up steadily into his inquisitorial eyes, and
answered:

“I have nothing to confess.”

He laid his hand heavily on her shoulder, and his tone
was eager, vehement, pleading, tremulous:

“Can you look me in the eye — so — and say that you
never put this key in yonder lock? Edna! more hangs on
your words than you dream of. Be truthful! as if you
were indeed in the presence of the God you worship. I
can forgive you for prying into my affairs, but I can not
and will not pardon you for trifling with me now.”

“I never unlocked the vault; I never had the key near it
but once—about a week ago—when I found the tomb covered
with cobwebs, and twisted the key partially into the
hole to drive out the spider. I give you my most solemn
assurance that I never unlocked it, never saw the interior.
Your suspicions are ungenerous and unjust—derogatory to
you and insulting to me.”

“The proof is at hand, and if I have indeed unjustly
suspected you, atonement full and ample shall be made.”

Clasping one of her hands so firmly that she could not
extricate it, he drew her before the Taj Mahal, and stooping,
fitted the key to the lock. There was a dull click as
he turned it, but even then he paused and scrutinized her
face. It was flushed, and wore a proud, defiant, grieved
look; his own was colorless as the marble that reflected it,
and she felt the heavy, rapid beating of his blood, and saw
the cords thickening on his brow.

“If you have faithfully observed your promise, there will
be an explosion when I open the vault.”

Slowly he turned the key a second time; and as the
arched door opened and swung back on its golden hinges,
there was a flash and sharp report from a pistol within.

Edna started involuntarily notwithstanding the warning,
and clung to his arm an instant, but he took no notice of
her whatever. His fingers relaxed their iron grasp of hers,
his hand dropped to his side, and leaning forward, he bowed
his head on the marble dome of the little temple. How
long he stood there she knew not; but the few moments
seemed to her interminable as she silently watched his
motionless figure.

He was so still, that finally she conjectured he might
possibly have fainted from some cause unknown to her;
and averse though she was to addressing him, she said
timidly:

“Mr. Murray, are you ill? Give me the key of the door
and I will bring you some wine.”

There was no answer, and in alarm she put her hand on
his.

Tightly he clasped it, and drawing her suddenly close to
his side, said without raising his face:

“Edna Earl, I have been ill—for years—but I shall be
better henceforth. O child! child! your calm, pure, guileless
soul can not comprehend the blackness and dreariness
of mine. Better that you should lie down now in death,
with all the unfolded freshness of your life gathered in your
grave, than live to know the world as I have proved it.
For many years I have lived without hope or trust or faith
in any thing—in any body. To-night I stand here lacking
sympathy with or respect for my race, and my confidence
in human nature was dead; but, child, you have galvanized
the corpse.”

Again the mournful music of his voice touched her heart,
and she felt her tears rising as she answered in a low, hesitating
tone:

“It was not death, Mr. Murray, it was merely syncope
and this is a healthful reäction from disease.”

“No, it will not last. It is but an ignis fatuus that will
decoy to deeper gloom and darker morasses. I have swept
and garnished, and the seven other devils will dwell with
me forever! My child, I have tempted you, and you stood
firm. Forgive my suspicions. Twenty years hence, if you
are so luckless as to live that long, you will not wonder
that I doubted you, but that my doubt proved unjust.
This little vault contains no skeleton, no state secrets; only
a picture and a few jewels, my will, and the history of a
wrecked, worthless, utterly ruined life. Perhaps if you
continue true, and make my mother happy, I may put all
in your hands some day, when I die; and then you will
not wonder at my aimless, hopeless, useless life. One thing
I wish to say now, if at any time you need assistance of any
kind—if you are troubled—come to me. I am not quite so
selfish as the world paints me, and even if I seem rude and
harsh, do not fear to come to me. You have conferred a
favor on me, and I do not like to remain in any body's debt.
Make me repay you as soon as possible.”

“I am afraid, sir, we never can be friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have no confidence in me, and I would
much sooner go for sympathy to one of your bronze monsters
yonder on the doorsteps, than to you. Neither of us
likes the other, and consequently a sham cordiality would
be intolerably irksome. I shall not be here much longer;
but while we are in the same house, I trust no bitter or
unkind feelings will be entertained. I thank you, sir, for
your polite offer of assistance, but hope I shall soon be able
to maintain myself without burdening your mother any
longer.”

“How long have you burdened her?”

“Ever since that night when I was picked up lame and
helpless, and placed in her kind hands.”

“I should like to know whether you really love my
mother?”

“Next to the memory of my grandfather, I love her and
Mr. Hammond; and I feel that my gratitude is beyond
expression. There, your mother is coming! I hear the
carriage. Shall I tell her you are here?”

Without raising his face, he took the key of the door
from his pocket, and held it toward her. “No; I will meet
her in her own room.”

Edna hastened to the library, and throwing herself into
a chair, tried to collect her thoughts and reflect upon what
had passed in the “Egyptian Museum.”

Very soon Mrs. Murray's cry of joyful surprise rang
through the house, and tears of sympathy rose to Edna's
eyes as fancy pictured the happy meeting in the neighboring
room. Notwithstanding the strong antipathy to Mr.
Murray which she had assiduously cultivated, and despite
her conviction that he held in derision the religious faith
to which she clung so tenaciously, she was now disquieted
and pained to discover that his bronzed face possessed an
attraction—an indescribable fascination—which she had
found nowhere else. In striving to analyze the interest
she was for the first time conscious of feeling, she soothed
herself with the belief that it arose from curiosity concerning
his past life, and sympathy for his evident misanthropy.
It was in vain that she endeavored to fix her thoughts on
a book; his eyes met hers on every page, and when the bell
summoned her to a late supper, she was glad to escape
from her own confused reflections.

Mrs. Murray and her son were standing on the rug
before the grate, and as Edna entered, the former held out
her hand.

“Have you seen my son? Come and congratulate me.”
She kissed the girl's forehead, and continued:

“St. Elmo, has she not changed astonishingly? Would
you have known her had you met her away from home?”

“I should certainly have known her under all circumstances.”

He did not look at her, but resumed the conversation
with his mother which her entrance had interrupted, and
during supper Edna could scarcely realize that the cold, distant
man who took no more notice of her, than of one of the
salt cellars, was the same whom she had left leaning over the
Taj. Not the faintest trace of emotion lingered on the
dark, stony features, over which occasionally flickered the
light of a sarcastic smile, as he briefly outlined the course
of his wanderings; and now that she could, without being
observed, study his countenance, she saw that he looked
much older, more worn and haggard and hopeless, than
when last at home, and that the thick curling hair that
clung in glossy rings to his temples was turning grey.

When they rose from the table, Mrs. Murray took an elegant
bouquet from the mantlepiece and said:

“Edna, I was requested to place this in your hands, as a
token of the regard and remembrance of your friend and
admirer, Gordon Leigh, who charged me to assure you
that your absence spoiled his enjoyment of the day. As he
seemed quite inconsolable because of your non-attendance,
I promised that you should ride with him to-morrow
afternoon.”

As Edna glanced up to receive the flowers, she met the
merciless gaze she so much dreaded, and in her confusion
let the bouquet fall on the carpet. Mr. Murray picked it
up, inhaled the fragrance, reärranged some of the geranium
leaves that had been crushed, and, smiling bitterly all
the while, bowed, and put it securely in her hand.

“Edna, you have no other engagement for to-morrow?”

“Yes, madam, I have promised to spend it with Mr.
Hammond.”

“Then you must excuse yourself, for I will not have
Gordon disappointed again.”

Too much annoyed to answer, Edna left the room, but

paused in the hall and beckoned to Mrs. Murray who instantly
joined her.

“Of course you will not have prayers to-night, as Mr.
Murray has returned?”

“For that very reason I want to have them, to make a
public acknowledgment of my gratitude that my son has
been restored to me. Oh! if he would only consent to be
present!”

“It is late, and he will probably plead fatigue.”

“Leave that with me, and when I ring the bell, come to
the library.”

The orphan went to her room and diligently copied an
essay which she intended to submit to Mr. Hammond for
criticism on the following day; and as the comparative
merits of the Solonian and Lycurgian codes constituted her
theme, she soon became absorbed by Grecian politics, and
was only reminded of the events of the evening, when the
muezzin bell sounded, calling the household to prayer.

She laid down her pen and hurried to the library, whither
Mrs. Murray had enticed her son, who was standing before
one of the bookcases, looking over the table of contents of
a new scientific work. The servants came in and ranged
themselves near the door, and suddenly Mrs. Murray said:

“You must take my place to-night, Edna; I can not read
aloud.”

The orphan looked up appealingly, but an imperative
gesture silenced her, and she sat down before the table, bewildered
and frightened. Mr. Murray glanced around the
room, and with a look of wrath and scorn threw down the
book and turned toward the door; but his mother's hands
seized his—

“My son, for my sake, do not go! Out of respect for
me, remain this first evening of your return. For my sake,
St. Elmo!”

He frowned, shook off her hands, and strode to the door;
then reconsidered the matter, came back, and stood at the

fireplace, leaning his elbow on the mantel, looking gloomily
at the coals.

Although painfully embarrassed as she took her seat and
prepared to conduct the services in his presence, Edna felt
a great calm steal over her spirit when she opened the
Bible and read her favorite chapter, the fourteenth of St.
John.

Her sweet, flexible voice, gradually losing its tremor,
rolled soothingly through the room; and when she knelt
and repeated the prayer selected for the occasion—a prayer
of thanks for the safe return of a traveller to the haven of
home—her tone was full of pathos and an earnestness that
strangely stirred the proud heart of the wanderer as he
stood there, looking through his fingers at her uplifted face,
and listening to the first prayer that had reached his ears
for nearly nineteen weary years of sin and scoffing.

When Edna rose from her knees he had left the room,
and she heard his swift steps echoing drearily through the
rotundo.