University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

THE daring scheme of authorship had seized upon
Edna's mind with a tenacity that conquered
and expelled all other purposes, and though
timidity and a haunting dread of the failure of
the experiment prompted her to conceal the matter, even
from her beloved pastor, she pondered it in secret, and
bent every faculty to its successful accomplishment. Her
veneration for books—the great eleemosynary granaries of
human knowledge to which the world resorts—extended
to those who created them; and her imagination invested
authors with peculiar sanctity, as the real hierophants
anointed with the chrism of truth. The glittering pinnacle
of consecrated and successful authorship seemed to her
longing gaze as sublime, and well-nigh as inaccessible, as
the everlasting and untrodden Himalayan solitudes appear
to some curious child of Thibet or Nepaul; who, gamboling
among pheasants and rhododendrons, shades her dazzled
eyes with her hand, and looks up awe-stricken and wondering
at the ice-domes and snow-minarets of lonely Deodunga,
earth's loftiest and purest altar, nimbused with the dawning
and the dying light of the day. There were times
when the thought of presenting herself as a candidate for
admission into the band of literary exoterics seemed to
Edna unpardonably presumptuous, almost sacrilegious, and
she shrank back, humbled and abashed; for writers were
teachers, interpreters, expounders, discoverers, or creators—

and what could she, just stumbling through the alphabet
of science and art, hope to donate to her race that would
ennoble human motives or elevate aspirations? Was she,
an unknown and inexperienced girl, worthy to be girded
with the ephod that draped so royally the Levites of literature?
Had God's own hand set the Urim and Thummim
of Genius in her soul? Above all, was she mitred with the
plate of pure gold—“Holiness unto the Lord?”

Solemnly and prayerfully she weighed the subject, and
having finally resolved to make one attempt, she looked
trustingly to heaven for aid, and went vigorously to work.

To write currente calamo for the mere pastime of author
and readers, without aiming to inculcate some regenerative
principle, or to photograph some valuable phase of protean
truth, was in her estimation ignoble; for her high standard
demanded that all books should be to a certain extent didactic,
wandering like evangels among the people, and making
some man, woman, or child happier, or wiser, or better—
more patient or more hopeful—by their utterances. Believing
that every earnest author's mind should prove a
mint, where all valuable ores are collected from the rich
veins of a universe — are cautiously coined, and thence
munificently circulated—she applied herself diligently to
the task of gathering from various sources the data required
for her projected work: a vindication of the unity
of mythologies. The vastness of the cosmic field she was
now compelled to traverse, the innumerable ramifications
of polytheistic and monotheistic creeds, necessitated unwearied
research, as she rent asunder the superstitious vails
which various nations and successive epochs had woven before
the shining features of truth. To-day peering into the
golden Gardens of the Sun at Cuzco; to-morrow clambering
over Thibet glaciers, to find the mystic lake of Yamuna;
now delighted to recognize in Teoyamiqui (the wife
of the Aztec God of War) the unmistakable features of
Scandinavian Valkyrias; and now surprised to discover the

Greek Fates sitting under the Norse tree Ygdrasil, deciding
the destinies of mortals, and calling themselves Nornas; she
spent her days in pilgrimages to mouldering shrines, and
midnight often found her groping in the classic dust of extinct
systems. Having once grappled with her theme, she
wrestled as obstinately as Jacob for the blessing of a successful
solution, and in order to popularize a subject bristling
with recondite archaisms and philologic problems, she
cast it in the mould of fiction. The information and pleasure
which she had derived from the perusal of Vaughan's
delightful Hours with the Mystics, suggested the idea
of adopting a similar plan for her own book, and investing
it with the additional interest of a complicated plot and
more numerous characters. To avoid anachronisms, she
endeavored to treat the religions of the world in their chronologic
sequence, and resorted to the expedient of introducing
pagan personages. A fair young priestess of the temple
of Neith, in the sacred city of Sais—where people of all
climes collected to witness the festival of lamps—becoming
skeptical of the miraculous attributes of the statues she had
been trained to serve and worship, and impelled by an earnest
love of truth to seek a faith that would satisfy her reason and
purify her heart, is induced to question minutely the religious
tenets of travellers who visited the temple, and thus
familiarized herself with all existing creeds and hierarchies.
The lore so carefully garnered is finally analyzed, classified,
and inscribed on papyrus. The delineation of scenes and
sanctuaries in different latitudes, from Lhasa to Copan,
gave full exercise to Edna's descriptive power, but imposed
much labor in the departments of physical geography and
architecture.

Verily! an ambitious literary programme for a girl over
whose head scarcely eighteen years had hung their dripping
drab wintry skies, and pearly summer clouds.

One March morning, as Edna entered the breakfast-room,
she saw unusual gravity printed on Mrs. Murray's face; and

observing an open letter on the table, conjectured the cause
of her changed countenance. A moment after the master
came in, and as he seated himself his mother said:

“St Elmo, your cousin Estelle's letter contains bad news.
Her father is dead; the estate is wretchedly insolvent; and
she is coming to reside with us.”

“Then I am off for Hammerfest and the midnight sun!
Who the deuce invited her I should like to know?”

“Remember she is my sister's child; she has no other
home, and I am sure it is very natural that she should come
to me, her nearest relative, for sympathy and protection.”

“Write to her by return mail that you will gladly allow
her three thousand a year, provided she ensconces herself
under some other roof than this.”

“Impossible! I could not wound her so deeply.”

“You imagine that she entertains a most tender and profound
regard for both of us?”

“Certainly, my son; we have every reason to believe
that she does.”

Leaning back in his chair, St. Elmo laughed derisively.

“I should really enjoy stumbling upon something that
would overtax your most marvellous and indefinitely extensible
credulity! When Estelle Harding becomes an inmate
of this house I shall pack my valise, and start to
Tromso! She approaches like Discord, uninvited, armed
with an apple or a dagger. I am perfectly willing to share
my fortune with her, but I'll swear I would rather prowl
for a month through the plague-stricken district of Constantinople
than see her domesticated here! You tried the
experiment when she was a child, and we fought and
scratched as indefatigably as those two amiable young
Theban bullies, who are so often cited as scarecrows for
quarrelsome juveniles. Of course we shall renew the
battle at sight.”

“But my dear son, there are claims urged by natural
affection which it is impossible to ignore. Poor Estelle

is very desolate, and has a right to our sympathy and
love.”

“Poor Estelle! Hœredipetœ! The frailties of old
Rome survive her virtues and her ruins!”

Mr. Murray laughed again, beat a tattoo with his fork on
the edge of his plate, and, rising, left the room.

Mrs. Murray looked puzzled and said:

“Edna, do you know what he meant? He often amuses
himself by mystifying me, and I will not gratify him by
asking an explanation.”

“Hœredipetœ were legacy-hunters in Rome, where their
sycophantic devotion to people of wealth furnished a constant
theme for satire.”

Mrs. Murray sighed heavily, and the orphan asked:

“When do you expect your niece?”

“Day after to-morrow. I have not seen her for many
years, but report says she is very fascinating, and even St.
Elmo, who met her in Europe, admits that she is handsome.
As you heard him say just now, they formerly quarrelled
most outrageously and shamefully, and he took an unaccountable
aversion to her; but I trust all juvenile reminiscences
will vanish when they know each other better. My
dear, I have several engagements for to-day, and I must
rely upon you to superintend the arrangement of Estelle's
room. She will occupy the one next to yours. See that
every thing is in order. You know Hagar is sick, and the
other servants are careless.”

Sympathy for Miss Harding's recent and severe affliction
prepared Edna's heart to receive her cordially, and the fact
that an irreconcilable feud existed between the stranger and
St. Elmo, induced the orphan to hope that she might find a
congenial companion in the expected visitor.

On the afternoon of her arrival Edna leaned eagerly forward
to catch a glimpse of her countenance, and as she
threw back her long mourning-vail and received her aunt's
affectionate greeting, the first impression was, “How exceedingly

handsome—how commanding she is!” But a few
minutes later, when Mrs. Murray introduced them, and
the stranger's keen, bright, restless eyes fell upon the orphan's
face, the latter drew back, involuntarily repelled,
and a slight shiver crept over her, for an unerring instinctive
repulsion told her they could never be friends.

Estelle Harding was no longer young; years had hardened
the outline of her features, and imparted a certain
staidness or fixedness to her calm countenance, where
strong feeling or passionate impulse was never permitted to
slip the elegant mask of polished suavity. She was surprisingly
like Mrs. Murray, but not one line of her face resembled
her cousin's. Fixing her eyes on Edna, with a cold,
almost stern scrutiny more searching than courteous, she
said:

“I was not aware, Aunt Ellen, that you had company in
the house.”

“I have no company at present, my dear. Edna resides
here. Do you not remember one of my letters in which I
mentioned the child, who was injured by the railroad accident?”

“True. I expected to see a child, certainly not a woman.”

“She seems merely a child to me. But come up to your
room; you must be very much fatigued by your journey.”

When they left the sitting-room Edna sat down in one
corner of the sofa, disappointed and perplexed.

“She does not like me, that is patent; and I certainly do
not like her. She is handsome and very graceful, and quite
heartless. There is no inner light from her soul shining in
her eyes; nothing tender and loving and kind in their
clear depths; they are cold, bright eyes, but not soft, winning,
womanly eyes. They might, and doubtless would,
hold an angry dog in check, but never draw a tired, fretful
child to lean its drooping head on her lap. If she really
has any feeling, her eyes should be indicted for slander. I

am sorry I don't like her, and I am afraid we never shall
be nearer each other than touching our finger-tips.”

Such was Edna's unsatisfactory conclusion, and dismissing
the subject, she picked up a book, and read until the
ladies returned and seated themselves around the fire.

To Mrs. Murray's great chagrin and mortification her son
had positively declined going to the depot to meet his
cousin, had been absent since breakfast, and proved himself
shamefully derelict in the courtesy demanded of him.
It was almost dark when the quick gallop of his horse announced
his return, and, as he passed the window on his
way to the stables, Edna noticed a sudden change in Estelle's
countenance. During the quarter of an hour that
succeeded, her eyes never wandered from the door, though
her head was turned to listen to Mrs. Murray's remarks.
Soon after, Mr. Murray's rapid footsteps sounded in the hall,
and as he entered she rose and advanced to meet him.
He held out his hand, shook hers vigorously, and said, as
he dropped it:

“Mine ancient enemy declare a truce, and quiet my apprehensions;
for I dreamed last night that, on sight, we
flew at each other's throats, and renewed the sanguinary
scuffles of our juvenile acquaintance. Most appallingly
vivid is my recollection of a certain scar here on my left
arm, where you set your pearly teeth some years ago.”

“My dear cousin, as I have had no provocation since I
was separated from you, I believe I have grown harmless
and amiable. How very well you look, St. Elmo.”

“Thank you. I should like to return the compliment, but
facts forbid. You are thinner than when we dined together
in Paris. Are you really in love with that excruciating
Brummell of a Count who danced such indefatigable attendance
upon you?”

“To whom do you allude?”

“That youth with languishing brown eyes, who parted
his `hyacinthine tresses' in the middle of his head; whose

moustache required Ehrenberg's strongest glasses—and who
absolutely believed that Ristori singled him out of her
vast audiences as the most appreciative of her listeners;
who was eternally humming `Ernani' and raving about
`Traviata.' Your memory is treacherous—as your conscience?
Well, then, that man, who I once told you reminded
me of what Guilleragues is reported to have said
about Pelisson, `that he abused the permission men have to
be ugly.'”

“Ah! you mean poor Victor! He spent the winter in
Seville. I had a letter last week.”

“When do you propose to make him my cousin?”

“Not until I become an inmate of a lunatic asylum.”

“Poor wretch! If he only had courage to sue you for
breach of promise, I would, with pleasure, furnish sufficient
testimony to convict you and secure him heavy damages;
for I will swear you played fiancée to perfection. You
lavish expenditure of affection seemed to me altogether uncalled
for, considering the fact that the fish already floundered
at your feet.”

The reminiscence evidently annoyed her, though her lips
smiled, and Edna saw that, while his words were pointed
with a sarcasm lost upon herself, it was fully appreciated by
his cousin.

“St. Elmo, I am sorry to see that you have not improved
one iota; that all your wickedness clings to you like Sinbad's
burden.”

Standing at his side, she put her hand on his shoulder.

As he looked down at her, his lips curled.

“Nevertheless, Estelle, I find a pale ghost of pity for you
wandering up and down what was once my heart. After
the glorious intoxication of Parisian life, how can you endure
the tedium of this dullest of hum-drum—this most
moral and stupid of all country towns? Little gossip, few
flirtations, neither beaux esprits nor bons vivants—what will
become of you? Now, whatever amusement, edification, or

warning you may be able to extract from my society, I
here beg permission to express the hope that you will appropriate
unsparingly. I shall, with exemplary hospitality,
dedicate myself to your service—shall try to make amends
for votre cher Victor's absence, and solemnly promise to do
every thing in my power to assist you in strangling time,
except parting my hair in the middle of my head, and making
love to you. With these stipulated reservations, command
me ad libitum.”

Her face flushed slightly, she withdrew her hand and sat
down.

Taking his favorite position on the rug, with one hand
thrust into his pocket and the other dallying with his
watch-chain, Mr. Murray continued:

“Entire honesty on my part, and a pardonable and amiable
weakness for descanting on the charms of my native village,
compel me to assure you, that notwithstanding the
deprivation of opera and theatre, bal masqué and the Bois
de Boulogne, I believe you will be surprised to find that
the tone of society here is quite up to the lofty standard of
the `Society of Arcueil,' or even the requirements of the
Academy of Sciences. Our pastors are erudite as Abelard,
and rigid as Trappists; our young ladies are learned as
that ancient blue-stocking daughter of Pythagoras, and as
pious as St. Salvia, who never washed her face. For instance,
girls yet in their teens are much better acquainted
with Hebrew than Miriam was, when she sung it on the
shore of the Red Sea, (where, by the by, Talmudic tradition
says Pharaoh was not drowned,) and they will vehemently
contend for the superiority of the Targum of Onkelos
over that on the Hagiographa, ascribed to one-eyed
Joseph of Sora! You look incredulous, my fair cousin.
Nay, permit me to complete the inventory of the acquirements
of your future companions. They quote fluently
from the Megilloth, and will entertain you by fighting over
again the battle of the school of Hillel versus the school of

Shammai! Their attainments in philology reflect discredit
on the superficiality of Max Müller; and if an incidental
allusion is made to archæology, lo! they bombard
you with a broadside of authorities,and recondite terminology
that would absolutely make the hair of Lepsius and
Champollion stand on end. I assure you the savants of
the Old World would catch their breath with envious
amazement, if they could only enjoy the advantage of the
conversation of these orthodox and erudite refugees from
the nursery! The unfortunate men of this community are
kept in pitiable terror lest they commit an anachronism,
and if, after a careful reconnoissance of the slippery ground,
they tremblingly venture an anecdote of Selwyn or Hood,
or Beaumarchais, they are invariably driven back in confusion
by the inquiry, if they remember this or that bon mot
uttered at the court of Aurungzebe or of one of the early
Incas! Ah! would I were Molière to repaint Les Precieuses
Ridicules!”

Although his eyes had never once wandered from his
cousin's face,toward the corner where Edna sat embroidering
some mats, she felt the blood burning in her cheeks, and
forced herself to look up. At that moment, as he stood in
the soft glow of the firelight, he was handsomer than she
had ever seen him; and when he glanced swiftly over his
shoulder to mark the effect of his words, their eyes met,
and she smiled involuntarily.

“For shame, St. Elmo! I will have you presented by
the grand-jury of this county for wholesale defamation of
the inhabitants thereof,” said his mother, shaking her finger
at him.

Estelle laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

“My poor cousin! how I pity you, and the remainder of
the men here, surrounded by such a formidable coterie of
blues.”

“Believe me, even their shadows are as blue as those
which I have seen thrown upon the snow of Eyriks Jökull,

in Iceland, where I would have sworn that every shade cast
on the mountain was a blot of indigo. Sometimes I
seriously contemplate erecting an observatory and telescope,
in order to sweep our sky and render visible what I am
convinced exist there undiscovered—some of those deep
blue nebulæ which Sir John Herschel found in the southern
hemisphere! If the astronomical conjecture be correct,
concerning the possibility of a galaxy of blue stars, a huge
cluster hangs in this neighborhood and furnishes an explanation
of the color of the women.”

“Henceforth, St. Elmo, the sole study of my life shall
be to forget my alphabet. Miss Earl, do you understand
Hebrew?”

“Oh! no; I have only begun to study it.”

“Estelle, it is the popular and fashionable amusement
here. Young ladies and young gentlemen form classes for
mutual aid and `mutual admiration,' while they clasp
hands over the Masora. If Lord Brougham, and other
members of the `Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge,'
could only have been induced to investigate the
intellectual status of the `rising generation' of our village,
there is little room to doubt that, as they are not deemed
advocates for works of supererogation, they would long
ago have appreciated the expediency of disbanding said
society. I imagine Tennyson is a clairvoyant, and was
looking at the young people of this vicinage, when he
wrote:

Not even egoistic infallible `Brain Town'—that self-complacent
and pretentious `Hub,' can show a more ambitious
covey of literary fledgelings!”

“Your random firing seems to produce no confusion on
the part of your game,” answered his cousin, withdrawing
her gaze from Edna's tranquil features, over which a
half smile still lingered.

He did not seem to hear her words, but his eyebrows

thickened, as he drew a couple of letters from his pocket
and looked at the superscription.

Giving one to his mother, who sat looking over a newspaper,
he crossed the room and silently laid the other on
Edna's lap.

It was post-marked in a distant city and directed in a
gentleman's large, round business hand-writing. The girl's
face flushed with pleasure as she broke the seal, glanced at
the signature, and without pausing for a perusal hastily put
the letter into her pocket.

“Who can be writing to you, Edna?” asked Mrs. Murray,
when she had finished reading her own letter.

“Oh! doubtless some Syrian scribe has indited a Chaldee
billet-doux, which she can not spell out without the friendly
aid of dictionary and grammar. Permit her to withdraw
and decipher it. Meantime here comes Henry to announce
dinner, and a plate of soup will strengthen her for her task.”

Mr. Murray offered his arm to his cousin, and during dinner
he talked constantly, rapidly, brilliantly of men and
things abroad; now hurling a sarcasm at Estelle's head,
now laughing at his mother's expostulations, and studiously
avoiding any further notice of Edna, who was never so
thoroughly at ease as when he seemed to forget her
presence.

Estelle sat at his right hand, and suddenly refilling his
glass with bubbling champagne, he leaned over and whispered
a few words in her ear that brought a look of surprise
and pleasure into her eyes. Edna only saw the expression
of his face, and the tenderness, the pleading written there
astonished and puzzled her. The next moment they rose
from the table, and as Mr. Murray drew his cousin's hand
under his arm, Edna hurried away to her own room.

Among the numerous magazines to which St. Elmo subscribed,
was one renowned for the lofty tone of its articles
and the asperity of its carping criticisms, and this periodical
Edna always singled out and read with avidity.

The name of the editor swung in terrorum in the imagination
of all humble authorlings, and had become a synonym
for merciless critical excoriation.

To this literary Fouquier Tinville, the orphan had daringly
written some weeks before, stating her determination to
attempt a book, and asking permission to submit the first
chapter to his searching inspection. She wrote that she
expected him to find faults—he always did; and she preferred
that her work should be roughly handled by him,
rather than patted and smeared with faint praise by men of
inferior critical astuteness.

The anxiously expected reply had come at last, and as
she locked her door and sat down to read it, she trembled
from head to foot. In the centre of a handsome sheet of
tinted paper she found these lines.

Tears of disappointment filled her eyes and for a moment
she bit her, lip with uncontrolled vexation; then refolding
the letter, she put it in a drawer of her desk,and said sorrowfully:

“I certainly had no right to expect any thing more polite
from him. He snubs even his popular contributors, and of
course he would not be particularly courteous to an unknown
scribbler. Perhaps some day I may make him regret
that letter; and such a triumph will more than compensate
for this mortification. One might think that all
literary people, editors, authors, reviewers, would sympathize
with each other, and stretch out their hands to aid
one another; but it seems there is less free-masonry among

literati than other guilds. They wage an internecine war
among themselves, though it certainly can not be termed
`civil strife,' judging from Mr. Douglass Manning's letter.”

Chagrined and perplexed she walked up and down the
room, wondering what step would be most expedient in the
present state of affairs; and trying to persuade herself that
she ought to consult Mr. Hammond. But she wished to
surprise him, to hear his impartial opinion of a printed
article which he could not suspect that she had written,
and finally she resolved to say nothing to any one, to work
on in silence, relying only upon herself. With this determination
she sat down before her desk, opened the MS. of
her book, and very soon became absorbed in writing the
second chapter. Before she had finished even the first sentence
a hasty rap summoned her to the door.

She opened it, and found Mr. Murray standing in the hall,
with a candle in his hand.

“Where is that volume of chess problems which you had
last week?”

“It is here, sir.”

She took it from the table, and as she approached him,
Mr. Murray held the light close to her countenance, and
gave her one of those keen looks, which always reminded
her of the descriptions of the scrutiny of the Council of Ten,
in the days when “lions' mouths” grinned at the street-corners
in Venice.

Something in the curious expression of his face, and the
evident satisfaction which he derived from his hasty investigation,
told Edna that the book was a mere pretext. She
drew back and asked:

“Have I any other book that you need?”

“No; I have all I came for.”

Smiling half mischievously, half maliciously, he turned
and left her.

“I wonder what he saw in my face that amused him?'

She walked up to the bureau and examined her own

image in the mirror; and there, on her cheeks, were the
unmistakable traces of the tears of vexation and disappointment.

“At least he can have no idea of the cause, and that is
some comfort, for he is too honorable to open my letters.”

But just here a doubt flashed into her mind, and rendered
her restless.

“How do I know that he is honorable? Can any man
be worthy of trust who holds nothing sacred, and sneers at
all religions? No; he has no conscience; and yet—”

She sighed and went back to her MS., and though for
a while St. Elmo Murray's mocking eyes seemed to glitter
on the pages, her thoughts ere long were anchored once
more, with the olive-crowned priestess in the temple at
Sais.