University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

AVOIDING as much as possible the society of Mrs.
Murray's guests, as well as that of her son,
Edna turned to her books with increased energy
and steadfastness, while her manner was marked
by a studied reticence hitherto unnoticed. The house was
thronged with visitors, and families residing in the neighborhood
were frequently invited to dinner; but the orphan
generally contrived on these occasions to have an engagement
at the parsonage; and as Mrs. Murray no longer
required, or seemed to desire her presence, she spent much
of her time alone, and rarely saw the members of the household,
except at breakfast. She noticed that Mr. Allston
either felt or feigned unbounded admiration of Estelle, who
graciously received his devoted attentions; while Mr.
Murray now and then sneered openly at both, and appeared
daily more impatient to quit the home, of which he spoke
with undisguised disgust. As day after day, and week
after week slipped by without bringing tidings of Edna's
MS., her heart became oppressed with anxious forebodings,
and she found it difficult to wait patiently for the verdict
upon which hung all her hopes.

One Thursday afternoon, when a number of persons had
been invited to dine at Le Bocage, and Mrs. Murray was
engrossed by preparations for their entertainment, Edna
took her Greek books and stole away unobserved to the
parsonage, where she spent a quiet evening in reading aloud
from the Organon of Aristotle.

It was quite late when Mr. Hammond took her home in
his buggy, and bade her good night at the door-step. As
she entered the house she saw several couples promenading
on the verandah, and heard Estelle and Clinton Allston
singing a duet from “Il Trovatore.” Passing the parlor
door one quick glance showed her Mr. Murray and Mr. Leigh
standing together under the chandelier—the latter gentleman
talking earnestly, the former with his gaze fastened on
the carpet, and the chilling smile fixed on his lip. The
faces of the two presented a painful contrast—one fair,
hopeful, bright with noble aims, and youthful yet manly
beauty; the other swarthy, cold, repulsive as some bronze
image of Abaddon. For more than three weeks Edna had
not spoken to Mr. Murray, except to utter “good morning,”
as she entered the dining-room, or passed him in the hall;
and now with a sigh which she did not possess the courage
to analyze, she went up to her room and sat down to read.

Among the books on her desk was Machiavelli's Prince,
and History of Florence, and the copy, which was an exceedingly
handsome one, contained a portrait of the author.
Between the regular features of the Florentine satirist and
those of the master of the house, Edna had so frequently
found a startling resemblance, that she one day mentioned
the subject to Mrs. Murray, who, after a careful examination
of the picture, was forced to admit, rather ungraciously,
that “they certainly looked somewhat alike.” To-night as
the orphan lifted the volume from its resting-place, it
opened at the portrait, and she looked long at the handsome
face which, had the lips been thinner, and the hair thicker
and more curling at the temples, might have been daguerreotyped
from that one down-stairs under the chandelier.

One maxim of the Prince had certainly been adopted
by Mr. Murray, “It is safer to be feared than to be loved;”
and while the orphan detested the crafty and unscrupulous
policy of Niccolo Machiavelli, her reason told her that the

character of St. Elmo Murray was scarcely more worthy of
respect.

She heard the guests take their departure, heard Mrs.
Murray ask Hagar whether “Edna had returned from the
parsonage,” and then doors were closed and the house grew
silent.

Vain were the girl's efforts to concentrate her thoughts
on her books or upon her MS.; they wandered toward the
portrait; and finally remembering that she needed a book
of reference, she lighted a candle, took the copy of Machiavelli,
which she determined to put out of sight, and went
down to the library. The smell of a cigar aroused her suspicions
as she entered, and glancing nervously around the
room she saw Mr Murray seated before the window.

His face was turned from her, and hoping to escape unnoticed,
she was retracing her steps when he rose.

“Come in, Edna. I am waiting for you, for I knew you
would be here some time before day.”

Taking the candle from her hand, he held it close to her
face, and compressed his lips tightly for an instant.

“How long do you suppose your constitution will endure
the tax you impose upon it? Midnight toil has already
robbed you of your color, and converted a rosy, robust child
into a pale, weary, hollow-eyed woman. What do you
want here?”

“The Edda.”

“What business have you with Norse myths, with runes
and scalds and sagas? You can't have the book. I carried
it to my rooms yesterday, and I am in no mood to-night to
play errand-boy for any one.”

Edna turned to place the copy of Machiavelli on the
shelves, and he continued:

“It is a marvel that the index expurgatorius of your
saintly tutor does not taboo the infamous doctrines of the
greatest statesman of Italy. I am told that you do me the
honor to discover a marked likeness between his countenance

and mine. May I flatter myself so highly as to believe
the statement?”

“Even your mother admits the resemblance.”

“Think you the analogy extends further than the mere
physique, or do you trace it only in the corporeal development?”

“I believe, sir, that your character is as much a counterpart
of his as your features; that your code is quite as
latitudinarian as his.”

She had abstained from looking at him, but now her eyes
met his fearlessly, and in their beautiful depths he read an
expression of loathing, such as a bird might evince for the
serpent whose glittering eyes enchained it.

“Ah! at least your honesty is refreshing in these accursed
days of hypocritical sycophancy! I wonder how
much more training it will require before your lips learn
fashionable lying tricks? But you understand me as little
as the world understood poor Machiavelli, of whom Burke
justly remarked, `He is obliged to bear the iniquities of
those whose maxims and rules of government he published.
His speculation is more abhorred than their practice.' We
are both painted blacker than—”

“I came here, sir, to discuss neither his character nor
yours. It is a topic for which I have as little leisure as inclination.
Good night, Mr. Murray.”

He bowed profoundly, and spoke through set teeth:

“I regret the necessity of detaining you a moment
longer, but I believe you have been anxiously expecting a
letter for some time, as I hear that you every day anticipate
my inquiries at the post-office. This afternoon the express
agent gave me this package.”

He handed her a parcel and smiled as he watched the
startled look, the expression of dismay, of keen disappointment
that came into her face.

The frail bark had struck the reefs; she felt that her
hopes were going down to ruin, and her lips quivered with

pain as she recognized Mr. Manning's bold chirography on
the paper wrapping.

“What is the matter, child?”

“Something that concerns only myself.”

“Are you unwilling to trust me with your secret, whatever
it may be? It would sooner find betrayal from the
grinning skeletons of Atures in the cavern of Ataruipe
than from my lips.”

Smothering a sigh she shook her head impatiently.

“That means that red-hot steel could not pinch it out of
you; and that despite your boasted charity and love of humanity
you really entertain as little confidence in your race
as it is my pleasure to indulge. I applaud your wisdom,
but certainly did not credit you with so much craftiness.
My reason for not delivering the parcel more promptly,was
simply the wish to screen you from the Argus scrutiny with
which we are both favored by some now resident at Bocage.
As your letters subjected you to suspicion, I presumed it
would be more agreeable to you to receive them without
witnesses.”

He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray; you are very kind.”

“Pardon me! that is indeed a novel accusation! Kind,
I never professed to be. I am simply not quite a brute, nor
altogether a devil of the most malicious and vindictive variety,
as you doubtless consider it your religious duty to
believe. However, having hopelessly lost my character, I
shall not trespass on your precious time by wasting words
in pronouncing a eulogy upon it, as Antony did over the
stabbed corpse of Cæsar! I stand in much the same relation
to society that King John did to Christendom, when
Innocent III. excommunicated him; only I snap my fingers
in the face of my pontiff, the world, and jingle my Peterpence
in my pocket; whereas poor John's knees quaked
until he found himself at the feet of Innocent, meekly receiving
Langton, and paying tribute! Child, you are in trouble;

and your truthful countenance reveals it as unmistak
ably as did the Phrygian reeds that babbled of the personal
beauties of Midas. Of course it does not concern me—it is
not my business—and you certainly have as good a right as
any other child of Adam, to fret and cry and pout over
your girlish griefs, to sit up all night, ruin your eyes, and
grow rapidly and prematurely old and ugly. But whenever
I chance to stumble over a wounded creature trying
to drag itself out of sight, I generally either wring its
neck, or set my heel on it to end its torment; or else, if
there is a fair prospect of the injury healing by `first intention,'
I take it gently on the tip of my boot, and help it
out of my way. Something has hurt you, and I suspect I
can aid you. Your anxiety about those letters proves that
you doubt your idol. You and your lover have quarrelled?
Be frank with me; tell me his name, and I swear, upon the
honor of a gentleman, I will rectify the trouble—will bring
him in contrition to your feet.”

Whether he dealt in irony, as was his habit, or really
meant what he said, she was unable to determine; and her
quick glance at his countenance showed her only a dangerous
sparkle in his eyes.

“Mr. Murray, you are wrong in your conjecture; I have
no lover.”

“Oh! call him what you please! I shall not presume to
dictate your terms of endearment. I merely wish to say,
that if poverty stands forbiddingly between you and happiness,
why, command me, to the extent of half my fortune.
I will give you a dowry that shall equal the expectations
of any ambitious suitor in the land. Trust me, child, with
your sorrow, and I will prove a faithful friend. Who has
your heart?”

The unexpected question alarmed and astonished her,
and a shivering dread took possession of her that he suspected
her real feelings, and was laughing at her folly.
Treacherous blood began to paint confusion in her face, and
vehement and rapid were her words.

“God and my conscience own my heart. I know no man
to whom I would willingly give it; and the correspondence
to which you allude contains not a syllable of love. My
time is rather too valuable to be frittered away in such
trifling.”

“Edna, would you prefer to have me a sworn ally or an
avowed enemy?”

“I should certainly prefer to consider you as neither.”

“Did you ever know me to fail in any matter which I
had determined to accomplish?”

“Yes, sir; your entire life is a huge, hideous, woful failure,
which mocks and maddens you.”

“What the d—l do you know of my life? It is not
ended yet, and it remains to be seen whether a grand success
is not destined to crown it. Mark you! the grapple is
not quite over, and I may yet throttle the furies whose cursed
fingers clutched me in my boyhood. If I am conquered
finally, take my oath for it, I shall die so hard that the
howling hags will be welcome to their prey. Single-handed
I am fighting the world, the flesh, and the devil, and I want
neither inspection, nor sympathy, nor assistance. Do you
understand me?”

“Yes, sir. And as I certainly desire to thrust neither
upon you, I will bid you good-night.”

“One moment! What does that package contain?”

“The contents belong exclusively to me—could not possibly
interest you—would only challenge your sarcasm, and
furnish food for derision. Consequently, Mr. Murray, you
must excuse me if I decline answering your question.”

“I'll wager my title to Le Bocage that I can guess so
accurately, that you will regret that you did not make a
grace of necessity, and tell me.”

A vague terror overshadowed her features as she examined
the seals on the package, and replied:

“That, sir, is impossible, if you are the honorable gentleman
I have always tried to force myself to believe.”

“Silly child! Do you imagine I would condescend to
soil my fingers with the wax that secures that trash? That
I could stoop to an inspection of the correspondence of a
village blacksmith's granddaughter? I will give you one
more chance to close the breach between us by proving
your trust. Edna, have you no confidence in me?”

“None, Mr. Murray.”

“Will you oblige me by looking me full in the face, and
repeating your flattering words?”

She raised her head, and though her heart throbbed
fiercely as she met his eyes, her voice was cold, steady, and
resolute:

“None, Mr. Murray.”

“Thank you. Some day those same red lips will humbly,
tremblingly crave my pardon for what they utter now; and
then, Edna Earl, I shall take my revenge, and you will look
back to this night and realize the full force of my parting
words—vœ victis!”

He stooped and picked up a bow of rose-colored ribbon
which had fallen from her throat, handed it to her, smiled,
and, with one of those low, graceful, haughty bows so indicative
of his imperious nature, he left the library. A moment
after she heard his peculiar laugh, mirthless and bitter,
ring through the rotundo; then the door was slammed
violently, and quiet reigned once more through the mansion.

Taking the candle from the table where Mr. Murray had
placed it, Edna went back to her own room and sat down
before the window.

On her lap lay the package and letter, which she no
longer felt any desire to open, and her hands drooped list
lessly at her side. The fact that her MS. was returned rung
a knell for all her sanguine hopes; for such was her confidence
in the critical acumen of Mr. Manning, that she deemed
it utterly useless to appeal to any other tribunal. A higher
one she knew not; a lower she scorned to consult.

She felt like Alice Lisle on that day of doom, when Jeffreys
pronounced the fatal sentence; and after a time, when
she summoned courage to open the letter, her cheeks were
wan and her lips compressed so firmly that their curves of
beauty were no longer traceable.

Unwrapping the MS., she laid it with its death-warrant
in a drawer, then sat down, crossed her arms on the top of
her desk, and rested her head upon them. The face was
not concealed, and, as the light shone on it, an experienced
physiognomist would have read there profound disappointment,
a patient weariness, but unbending resolution and no
vestige of bitterness. The large, thoughtful eyes were sad
but dry, and none who looked into them could have imagined
for an instant that she would follow the advice she had
so eagerly sought. During her long reverie, she wondered
whether all women were browbeaten for aspiring to literary
honors; whether the poignant pain and mortification
gnawing at her heart was the inexorable initiation-fee for
entrance upon that arena, where fame adjudges laurel
crowns, and reluctantly and sullenly drops one now and
then on female brows. To possess herself of the golden
apple of immortality, was a purpose from which she had
never swerved; but how to baffle the dragon critics who
jealously guarded it was a problem whose solution puzzled
her.

To abandon her right to erudition formed no part of the
programme which she was mentally arranging, as she sat
there watching a moth singe its filmy, spotted wings in the
gas-flame; for she was obstinately wedded to the unpardonable
heresy, that, in the nineteenth century, it was a
woman's privilege to be as learned as Cuvier, or Sir William
Hamilton, or Humboldt, provided the learning was
accurate, and gave out no hollow, counterfeit ring under
the merciless hammering of the dragons. If women chose
to blister their fair, tender hands in turning the windlass

of that fabled well where truth is hidden, and bruised their
pretty, white feet in groping finally on the rocky bottom,
was the treasure which they ultimately discovered and
dragged to light any the less truth because stentorian,
manly voices were not the first to shout Eureka?

She could not understand why, in the vineyard of letters,
the laborer was not equally worthy of hire, whether the
work was successfully accomplished in the toga virilis or
the gay kirtle of contadina.

Gradually the expression of pain passed from the girl's
countenance, and, lifting her head, she took from her desk
several small MSS., which she had carefully written from
time to time, as her reading suggested the ideas embodied
in the articles. Among the number were two, upon which
she had bestowed much thought, and which she determined
to send to Mr. Manning.

One was an elaborate description of that huge iconoclasm
attributed to Alcibiades, and considered by some philosophic
students of history as the primeval cause of the ruin
of Athens. In order to reflect all possible light on this
curious occurrence, she had most assiduously gleaned the
pages of history, and massed the grains of truth; had studied
maps of the city and descriptions of travellers, that she
might thoroughly understand the topography of the scene
of the great desecration. So fearful was she of committing
some anachronism, or of soaring on the wings of fancy beyond
the realm of well-authenticated facts, that she searched
the ancient records to ascertain whether on that night in
May, 415 B.C., a full or a new moon looked down on the
bronze helmet of Minerva Promachus and the fretted frieze
of the Parthenon.

The other MS., upon which she had expended much
labor, was entitled “Keeping the Vigil of St. Martin under
the Pines of Grütli;” and while her vivid imagination
reveled in the weird and solemn surroundings of the lonely
place of rendezvous, the sketch contained a glowing and

eloquent tribute to the liberators of Helvetia, the Confederates
of Schweitz, Uri, and Underwalden.

Whether Mr. Manning would consider either of these
articles worthy of preservation in the pages of his magazine,
she thought exceedingly doubtful; but she had resolved to
make one more appeal to his fastidious judgment, and accordingly
sealed and directed the roll of paper.

Weary but sleepless, she pushed back the heavy folds of
hair that had fallen on her forehead, brightened the gas-light,
and turned to the completion of a chapter in that MS.
which the editor had recommended her to commit to the
flames. So entirely was she absorbed in her work that the
hours passed unheeded. Now and then, when her thoughts
failed to flow smoothly into graceful sentence moulds, she
laid aside her pen, walked up and down the floor, turning
the idea over and over, fitting it first to one phrase, then to
another, until the verbal drapery fully suited her.

The whistle of the locomotive at the depot told her that
it was four o'clock before her task was accomplished; and,
praying that God's blessing would rest upon it, she left it
unfinished, and threw herself down to sleep.

But slumber brought no relaxation to the busy brain that
toiled on in fitful, grotesque dreams; and when the sunshine
streamed through the open window at the foot of her bed,
it showed no warm flush of healthful sleep on the beautiful
face, but weariness and pallor. Incoherent words stirred
the lips, troubled thought knitted the delicately-arched
brows, and the white, dimpled arms were tossed restlessly
above her head.

Was the tired midnight worker worthy of her hire? The
world would one day pay her wages in the currency of
gibes, and denunciation, and envious censoriousness; but
the praise of men had not tempted her to the vineyard, and
she looked in faith to Him “who seeth in secret,” and
whose rewards are at variance with those of the task-masters
of earth. “Wherefore,” O lonely but conscientious

student! “be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding
in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your
labor is not in vain!”

Literary women, whose avocation is selected simply because
they fancy it easier to write than to sew for bread,
or because they covet the applause and adulation heaped
upon successful genius, or desire mere notoriety, generally
barter their birthright of quiet, life-long happiness in the
peaceful seclusion of home for a nauseous mess of poisoned
pottage that will not appease their hunger; and they go
down to untimely graves disappointed, imbittered, hating
the public for whose praises they toiled, cheated out of the
price for which they bargained away fireside joys and domestic
serenity.

The fondest hope of Edna's heart was to be useful in
“her day and generation”—to be an instrument of some
good to her race; and while she hoped for popularity as an
avenue to the accomplishment of her object, the fear of
ridicule and censure had no power to deter her from the
line of labor upon which she constantly invoked the guidance
and blessing of God.

The noble words of Kepler rang a ceaseless silvery chime
in her soul, and while they sustained and strengthened her,
she sought to mould her life in harmony with their sublime
teachings:

“Lo! I have done the work of my life with that power
of intellect which Thou hast given. If I, a worm before
thine eyes, and born in the bonds of sin, have brought forth
any thing that is unworthy of thy counsels, inspire me with
thy spirit, that I may correct it. If by the wonderful
beauty of thy works I have been led into boldness—if I have
sought my own honor among men as I advanced in the work
which was destined to thine honor, pardon me in kindness
and charity, and by thy grace grant that my teaching may
be to thy glory and the welfare of all men. Praise ye the
Lord, ye heavenly harmonies! and ye that understand the
new harmonies, praise the Lord!”