University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

MRS. ANDREWS writes that I must go on with as
little delay as possible, and I shall start early
Monday morning, as I wish to stop for one day
at Chattanooga.”

Edna rose and took her hat from the study-table, and
Mr. Hammond asked:

“Do you intend to travel alone?”

“I shall be compelled to do so, as I know of no one who
is going on to New-York. Of course, I dislike very much
to travel alone, but in this instance I do not see how I can
avoid it.”

“Do not put on your hat—stay and spend the evening
with me.”

“Thank you, sir, I want to go to the church and practise
for the last time on the organ. After to-morrow, I may
never sing again in our dear choir. Perhaps I may come
back after a while and stay an hour or two with you.”

During the past year she had accustomed herself to practising
every Saturday afternoon the hymns selected by
Mr. Hammond for the services of the ensuing day, and for
this purpose had been furnished by the sexton with a key,
which enabled her to enter the church whenever inclination
prompted. The church-yard was peaceful and silent as
the pulseless dust in its numerous sepulchres; a beautiful
red-bird sat on the edge of a marble vase that crowned the
top of one of the monuments, and leisurely drank the water
which yesterday's clouds had poured there, and a rabbit

nibbled the leaves of a cluster of pinks growing near a child's
grave.

Edna entered the cool church, went up into the gallery,
and sat down before the organ. For some time the low
solemn tones whispered among the fluted columns that
supported the gallery, and gradually swelled louder and
fuller and richer as she sang:

Her magnificent voice faltered more than once, and tears
fell thick and fast on the keys. Finally she turned and
looked down at the sacred spot where she had been baptized
by Mr. Hammond, and where she had so often knelt
to receive the sacrament of the Lord's Supper.

The church was remarkably handsome and tasteful, and
certainly justified the pride with which the villagers exhibited
it to all strangers. The massive mahogany pew-doors
were elaborately carved and surmounted by small crosses;
the tall, arched windows were of superb stained glass, representing
the twelve apostles; the floor and balustrade of
the altar, and the grand, Gothic pillared pulpit, were all of
the purest white marble; and the capitals, of the airy, elegant
columns of the same material, that supported the organ
gallery, were ornamented with rich grape-leaf mouldings;
while the large window behind and above the pulpit contained
a figure of Christ bearing his Cross—a noble copy
of the great painting of Solario, at Berlin.

As the afternoon sun shone on the glass, a flood of ruby
light fell from the garments of Jesus upon the glittering
marble beneath, and the nimbus that radiated around the
crown of thorns caught a glory that was dazzling.

With a feeling of adoration that no language could adequately
express, Edna had watched and studied this costly
painted window for five long years; had found a marvellous
fascination in the pallid face stained with purplish
blood-drops; in the parted lips quivering with human pain,

and anguish of spirit; in the unfathomable divine eyes that
pierced the veil and rested upon the Father's face. Not all
the sermons of Bossuet, or Chalmers, or Jeremy Taylor, or
Melville, had power to stir the great deeps of her soul like
one glance at that pale thorn-crowned Christ, who looked in
voiceless woe and sublime resignation over the world he
was dying to redeem.

To-day she gazed up at the picture of Emmanuel, till
her eyes grew dim with tears, and she leaned her head
against the mahogany railing and murmured sadly:

“`And he that taketh not his cross, and followeth after
me, is not worthy of me!' Strengthen me, O my Saviour!
so that I neither faint nor stagger under mine!”

The echo of her words died away among the arches of
the roof, and all was still in the sanctuary. The swaying
of the trees outside of the windows threw now a golden
shimmer, then a violet shadow over the gleaming altar pavement;
and the sun sank lower, and the nimbus faded, and
the wan Christ looked ghastly and toil-spent.

“Edna! My darling! my darling!”

The pleading cry, the tremulous, tender voice so full of
pathos, rang startlingly through the silent church, and the
orphan sprang up and saw Mr. Murray standing at her
side, with his arms extended toward her, and a glow on his
face and a look in his eyes which she had never seen there
before.

She drew back a few steps and gazed wonderingly at
him; but he followed, threw his arm around her, and, despite
her resistance, strained her to his heart.

“Did you believe that I would let you go? Did you
dream that I would see my darling leave me, and go out
into the world to be buffeted and sorely tried, to struggle
with poverty—and to suffer alone? O silly child! I
would part with my own life sooner than give you up!
Of what value would it be without you, my pearl, my sole
hope, my only love, my own pure Edna—”

“Such language you have no right to utter, and I none to
hear! It is dishonorable in you and insulting to me. Gertrude's
lover can not, and shall not, address such words to
me. Unwind your arms instantly! Let me go!”

She struggled hard to free herself, but his clasp tightened,
and as he pressed her face against his bosom, he threw
his head back and laughed:

“`Gertrude's lover!' Knowing my history, how could
you believe that possible? Am I, think you, so meek and
forgiving a spirit as to turn and kiss the hand that smote
me? Gertrude's lover! Ha! ha!! Your jealousy blinds
you, my—”

“I know nothing of your history; I have never asked;
I have never been told one word! But I am not blind,
I know that you love her, and I know, too, that she fully
reciprocates your affection. If you do not wish me to despise
you utterly, leave me at once.”

He laughed again, and put his lips close to her ear, saying
softly, tenderly—ah! how tenderly:

“Upon my honor as a gentleman, I solemnly swear that
I love but one woman; that I love her as no other woman
ever was loved; with a love that passes all language; a
love that is the only light and hope of a wrecked, cursed,
unutterably miserable life; and that idol which I have set
up in the lonely gray ruins of my heart is Edna Earl!”

“I do not believe you! You have no honor! With the
touch of Gertrude's lips and arms still on yours, you come
to me and dare to perjure yourself! O Mr. Murray!
Mr. Murray! I did not believe you capable of such despicable
dissimulation! In the catalogue of your sins, I never
counted deceit. I thought you too proud to play the hypocrite.
If you could realize how I loathe and abhor you,
you would get out of my sight! You would not waste
time in words that sink you deeper and deeper in shameful
duplicity. Poor Gertrude! How entirely you mistake

your lover's character! How your love will change to
scorn and detestation!”

In vain she endeavored to wrench away his arm; a band
of steel would have been as flexible; but St. Elmo's voice
hardened, and Edna felt his heart throb fiercely against her
cheek as he answered:

“When you are my wife you will repent your rash
words, and blush at the remembrance of having told your
husband that he was devoid of honor. You are piqued and
jealous, just as I intended you should be; but, darling, I
am not a patient man, and it frets me to feel you struggling
so desperately in the arms that henceforth will always enfold
you. Be quiet and hear me, for I have much to tell
you. Don't turn your face away from mine, your lips belong
to me. I never kissed Gertrude in my life, and so help
me God, I never will! Hear—”

“No! I will hear nothing! Your touch is profanation.
I would sooner go down into my grave, out there in the
church-yard, under the granite slabs, than become the wife
of a man so unprincipled. I am neither piqued nor jealous,
for your affairs can not affect my life; I am only astonished
and mortified and grieved. I would sooner feel the coil of
a serpent around my waist than your arms.”

Instantly they fell away. He crossed them on his chest,
and his voice sank to a husky whisper, as the wind hushes
itself just before the storm breaks.

“Edna, God is my witness that I am not deceiving you;
that my words come from the great troubled depths of a
wretched heart. You said you knew nothing of my history.
I find it more difficult to believe you than you to
credit my declarations. Answer one question: Has not
your pastor taught you to distrust me? Can it be possible
that no hint of the past has fallen from his lips?”

“Not one unkind word, not one syllable of your history
has he uttered. I know no more of your past than if it
were buried in mid-ocean.”

Mr. Murray placed her in one of the cushioned chairs designed
for the use of the choir, and leaning back against
the railing of the gallery, fixed his eyes on Edna's face.

“Then it is not surprising that you distrust me, for you
know not my provocation. Edna, will you be patient?
Will you go back with me over the scorched and blackened
track of an accursed and sinful life? Ha! it is a hideous
waste I am inviting you to traverse! Will you?”

“I will hear you, Mr. Murray, but nothing that you can
say will exculpate your duplicity to Gertrude, and—”

“D—n Gertrude! I ask you to listen, and suspend
your judgment till you know the circumstances.”

He covered his eyes with his hand, and in the brief silence
she heard the ticking of his watch.

“Edna, I roll away the stone from the charnel-house of
the past, and call forth the Lazarus of my buried youth,
my hopes, my faith in God, my trust in human nature, my
charity, my slaughtered manhood! My Lazarus has tenanted
the grave for nearly twenty years, and comes forth,
at my bidding, a grinning skeleton. You may or may not
know that my father, Paul Murray, died when I was an infant,
leaving my mother the sole guardian of my property
and person. I grew up at Le Bocage under the training
of Mr. Hammond, my tutor; and my only associate, my
companion from earliest recollection, was his son Murray,
who was two years my senior, and named for my father.
The hold which that boy took upon my affection was wonderful,
inexplicable! He wound me around his finger as
you wind the silken threads with which you embroider.
We studied, read, played together. I was never contented
out of his sight, never satisfied until I saw him liberally
supplied with every thing that gave me pleasure. I believe
I was very precocious, and made extraordinary strides in
the path of learning; at all events, at sixteen I was considered
a remarkable boy. Mr. Hammond had six children;
and as his salary was rather meagre, I insisted on paying

his son's expenses as well as my own when I went to Yale.
I could not bear that my Damon, my Jonathan, should be
out of my sight; I must have my idol always with me.
His father was educating him for the ministry, and he had
already commenced the study of theology; but no! I must
have him with me at Yale, and so to Yale we went. I had
fancied myself a Christian, had joined the church, was zealous
and faithful in all my religious duties. In a fit of pious
enthusiasm I planned this church—ordered it built. The
cost was enormous, and my mother objected, but I intended
it as a shrine for the `apple of my eye,' and where he
was concerned, what mattered the expenditure of thousands?
Was not my fortune quite as much at his disposal
as at mine? I looked forward with fond pride to the time
when I should see my idol—Murray Hammond—standing
in yonder shining pulpit. Ha! at this instant it is filled
with a hideous spectre! I see him there! His form and
features mocking me, daring me to forget! Handsome as
Apollo! treacherous as Apollyon!”

He paused, pointing to the pure marble pile where a violet
flame seemed flickering, and then with a groan bowed
his head upon the railing. When he spoke again, his face
wore an ashy hue, and his stern mouth was unsteady.

“Hallowed days of my blessed boyhood! Ah! they rise
before me now, like holy burning stars, breaking out in a
stormy howling night, making the blackness blacker still!
My short happy springtime of life! So full of noble aspirations,
of glowing hopes, of philanthropic schemes, of all
charitable projects! I would do so much good with my
money! my heart was brimming with generous impulses,
with warm sympathy and care for my fellow-creatures.
Every needy sufferer should find relief at my hands, as long
as I possessed a dollar or a crust! As I look back now at
that dead self, and remember all that I was, all the purity
of my life, the nobility of my character, the tenderness of
my heart—I do not wonder that people who knew me then,

predicted that I would prove an honor, a blessing to my
race! Mark you! that was St. Elmo Murray—as nature
fashioned him; before man spoiled God's handiwork.
Back! back to your shroud and sepulchre, O Lazarus
of my youth! and when I am called to the final judgment,
rise for me! stand in my place, and confront those who
slaughtered you!...... My affection for my
chum, Murray, increased as I grew up to manhood, and there
was not a dream of my brain, a hope of my heart which
was not confided to him. I reverenced, I trusted, I almost
—nay I quite worshipped him! When I was only eighteen
I began to love his cousin, whose father was pastor of a
church in New-Haven, and whose mother was Mr. Hammond's
sister. You have seen her. She is beautiful even
now, and you can imagine how lovely Agnes Hunt was in
her girlhood. She was the belle and pet of the students,
and before I had known her a month, I was her accepted
lover. I loved her with all the devotion of my chivalric,
ardent, boyish nature; and for me she professed the most
profound attachment. Her parents favored our wishes for
an early marriage, but my mother refused to sanction such
an idea until I had completed my education, and visited
the old world. I was an obedient, affectionate son then, and
yielded respectfully; but as the vacation approached, I prepared
to come home, hoping to prevail on mother to consent
to my being married just before we sailed for Europe the
ensuing year, after I graduated. Murray was my confidant
and adviser. In his sympathizing ears I poured all my fond
hopes, and he insisted that I ought to take my lovely bride
with me; it would be cruel to leave her so long; and beside,
he was so impatient for the happy day when he should call
me his cousin. He declined coming home, on the plea of
desiring to prosecute his theological studies with his uncle,
Mr. Hunt. Well do I recollect the parting between us.
I had left Agnes in tears—inconsolable because of my departure;
and I flew to Murray for words of consolation
When I bade him good-bye my eyes were full of tears, an I
as he passed his arm around my shoulders, I whispered,
`Murray, take care of my angel Agnes for me! watch over
and comfort her while I am away.' Ah! as I stand here
to-day, I hear again ringing over the ruins of the past
twenty years, his sweet loving musical tones answering:

“`My dear boy, trust her to my care. St. Elmo, for your
dear sake I will steal time from my books to cheer her
while you are absent. But hurry back, for you know I
find black-letter more attractive than blue eyes. God bless
you, my precious friend. Write to me constantly.'

“Since then, I always shudder involuntarily when I hear
parting friends bless each other—for well, well do I know
the stinging curse coiled up in those smooth liquid
words! I came home and busied myself in the erection of
this church; in plans for Murray's advancement in life, as
well as my own. My importunity prevailed over my
mother's sensible objections, and she finally consented that
I should take my bride to Europe; while I had informed
Mr. Hammond that I wished Murray to accompany us;
that I would gladly pay his travelling expenses—I was so
anxious for him to see the East, especially Palestine. Full
of happy hopes, I hurried back earlier than I had intended,
and reached New-Haven very unexpectedly. The night
was bright with moonshine, my heart was bright with
hope, and too eager to see Agnes, whose letters had breathed
the most tender solicitude and attachment, I rushed up the
steps, and was told that she was walking in the little flower-garden.
Down the path I hurried, and stopped as I heard
her silvery laugh blended with Murray's; then my name
was pronounced in tones that almost petrified me. Under
a large apple-tree in the parsonage-garden they sat on a
wooden bench, and only the tendrils and branches of an
Isabella grape-vine divided us. I stood there, grasping the
vine—looking through the leaves at the two whom I had
so idolized; and saw her beautiful golden head flashing

in the moonlight as she rested it on her cousin's breast,
heard and saw their kisses; heard — what wrecked,
blasted me! I heard myself ridiculed—sneered at—maligned;
heard that I was to be a mere puppet—a cat's-paw;
that I was a doting, silly fool—easily hoodwinked;
that she found it difficult, almost impossible, to endure my
caresses; that she shuddered in my arms, and flew for happiness
to his! I heard that from the beginning I had been
duped; that they had always loved each other—always
would; but poverty stubbornly barred their marriage—
and she must be sacrificed to secure my princely fortune
for the use of both! All that was uttered I can not now
recapitulate; but it is carefully embalmed, and lies in the
little Taj Mahal, among other cherished souvenirs of my
precious friendships! While I stood there, I was transformed;
the soul of St. Elmo seem to pass away—a fiend
took possession of me; love died, hope with it—and an insatiable
thirst for vengeance set my blood on fire. During
those ten minutes my whole nature was warped, distorted;
my life blasted—mutilated—deformed. The loss of Agnes's
love I could have borne, nay—fool that I was!—I think
my quondam generous affection for Murray would have
made me relinquish her almost resignedly, if his happiness
had demanded the sacrifice on my part. If he had come to
me frankly and acknowledged all, my insane idolatry would
have made me place her hand in his, and remove the barrier
of poverty; and the assurance that I had secured his life-long
happiness would have sufficed for mine. Oh! the height
and depth and marvellous strength of my love for that
man passes comprehension! But their scorn, their sneers
at my weak credulity, their bitter ridicule of my awkward,
overgrown boyishness, stung me to desperation. I wondered
if I were insane, or dreaming, or the victim of some
horrible delusion. My veins ran fire as I listened to the
tangling of her silvery voice with the rich melody of his,
and I turned and left the garden, and walked back toward
the town. The moon was full, but I staggered and groped
my way like one blind to the college buildings. I knew
where a pair of pistols was kept by one of the students,
and possessing myself of them, I wandered out on the road
leading to the parsonage. I was aware that Murray intended
coming into the town, and at last I reeled into a shaded
spot near the road, and waited for him. Oh! the mocking
glory of that cloudless night! To this day, I hate the cold
glitter of stars, and the golden sheen of midnight moons?
For the first time in my life, I cursed the world and all it
held; cursed the contented cricket singing in the grass at
my feet; cursed the blood in my arteries, that beat so thick
and fast, I could not listen for the footsteps I was waiting
for. At last I heard him whistling a favorite tune, which
all our lives we had whistled together, as we hunted
through the woods around Le Bocage; and, as the familiar
sound of `The Braes of Balquither' drew nearer and
nearer, I sprang up with a cry that must have rung on the
night air like the yell of some beast of prey. Of all that
passed, I only know that I cursed and insulted and maddened
him till he accepted the pistol, which I thrust into
his hand. We moved ten paces apart—and a couple of
students who happened, accidentally, to pass along the road
and heard our altercation, stopped at our request, gave
the word of command, and we fired simultaneously. The
ball entered Murray's heart, and he fell dead without a
word. I was severely wounded in the chest, and now I
wear the ball here in my side. Ah! a precious in memoriam
of murdered confidence!”

Until now Edna had listened breathlessly, with her eyes
upon his; but here a groan escaped her, and she shuddered
violently, and hid her face in her hands.

Mr. Murray came nearer, stood close to her, and hurried
on.

“My last memory of my old idol is as he lay with his
handsome, treacherous face turned up to the moon; and the

hair which Agnes had been fingering, dabbled with dew,
and the blood that oozed down from his side. When I
recovered my consciousness, Murray Hammond had been
three weeks in his grave. As soon as I was able to travel,
my mother took me to Europe, and for five years we lived
in Paris, Naples, or wandered to and fro. Then she came
home, and I plunged into the heart of Asia. After two
years I returned to Paris, and gave myself up to every
species of dissipation. I drank, gambled, and my midnight
carousals would sicken your soul, were I to paint all their
hideousness. You have read in the Scriptures of persons possessed
of devils? A savage, mocking, tearing devil held me
in bondage. I sold myself to my Mephistopheles, on condition
that my revenge might be complete. I hated the whole
world with an intolerable, murderous hate; and to mock
and make my race suffer was the only real pleasure I found.
The very name, the bare mention of religion maddened
me. A minister's daughter, a minister's son, a minister
himself, had withered my young life, and I blasphemously
derided all holy things. O Edna! my darling! it is impossible
to paint all the awful wretchedness of that period,
when I walked in the world seeking victims and finding
many. Verily,
Ah! upon how many lovely women have I visited Agnes's
sin of hypocrisy! Into how many ears have I poured
tender words, until fair hands were as good as offered to
me, and I turned their love to mockery! I hated and despised
all womanhood; and even in Paris I became celebrated
as a heartless trifler with the affections I won and
trampled under my feet. Whenever a brilliant and beautiful
woman crossed my path, I attached myself to her
train of admirers, until I made her acknowledge my power
and give public and unmistakable manifestation of her preference
for me; then I left her—a target for the laughter
of her circle. It was not vanity; oh! no, no! That
springs from self-love, and I had none. It was hate of every
thing human, especially of every thing feminine. One of
the fairest faces that ever brightened the haunts of fashion
—a queenly, elegant girl—the pet of her family and of
society, now wears serge garments and a black veil, and is
immured in an Italian convent, because I entirely won her
heart; and when she waited for me to declare my affection
and ask her to become my wife, I quitted her side for that
of another belle, and never visited her again. On the day
when she bade adieu to the world, I was among the spectators;
and as her mournful but lovely eyes sought mine,
I laughed, and gloried in the desolation I had wrought.
Sick of Europe, I came home....
My tempting fiend pointed to one whose suffering would
atone for much of my misery. Edna, I withhold nothing:
there is much I might conceal, but I scorn to do so. During
one terribly fatal winter, scarlet-fever had deprived Mr.
Hammond of four children, leaving him an only daughter—
Annie—the image of her brother Murray. Her health was
feeble; consumption was stretching its skeleton hands
toward her, and her father watched her as a gardener tends
his pet—choice—delicate exotic. She was about sixteen, very
pretty, very attractive. After Murray's death, I never
spoke to Mr. Hammond, never crossed his path; but I met
his daughter without his knowledge, and finally I made
her confess her love for me. I offered her my hand; she accepted
it. A day was appointed for an elopement and
marriage; the hour came: she left the parsonage, but I did
not meet her here on the steps of this church as I had promised,
and she received a note, full of scorn and derision,
explaining the revengeful motives that had actuated me.
Two hours later, her father found her insensible on the
steps, and the marble was dripping with a hemorrhage of
blood from her lungs. The dark stain is still there; you
must have noticed it. I never saw her again. She kept
her room from that day, and died three months after.
When on her death-bed she sent for me, but I refused to
obey the summons. As I stand here, I see through the
window the gray, granite vault overgrown with ivy, and
the marble slab where sleep in untimely death Murray and
Annie Hammond, the victims of my insatiable revenge. Do
you wonder that I doubted you when you said that afflicted
father, Allan Hammond, had never uttered one unkind word
about me?”

Mr. Murray pointed to a quiet corner of the church-yard,
but Edna did not lift her face, and he heard the half-smothered,
shuddering moan that struggled up as she listened
to him.

He put his hand on hers, but she shivered and shrunk
away from him.

“Years passed. I grew more and more savage; the very
power of loving seemed to have died out in my nature.
My mother endeavored to drag me into society, but I was
surfeited, sick of the world—sick of my own excesses; and
gradually I became a recluse, a surly misanthrope. How
often have I laughed bitterly over those words of Mill's:
`Yet nothing is more certain than that improvement in
human affairs is wholly the work of the uncontented characters!'
My indescribable, my tormenting discontent, daily
belied his aphorism. My mother is a woman of stern integrity
of character, and sincerity of purpose; but she is
worldly and ambitious and inordinately proud, and for her
religion I had lost all respect. Again I went abroad, solely
to kill time; was absent two years and came back. I
had ransacked the world, and was disgusted, hopeless,
prematurely old. A week after my return I was attacked
by a very malignant fever, and my life was despaired of,

but I exulted in the thought that at last I should find oblivion.
I refused all remedies and set at defiance all medical
advice, hoping to hasten the end; but death cheated me. I
rose from my bed of sickness, cursing the mockery, realizing
that indeed:
Some months after my recovery, while I was out on a
camp-hunt, you were brought to Le Bocage, and the sight
of you made me more vindictive than ever. I believed you
selfishly designing, and I could not bear that you should
remain under the same roof with me. I hated children as I
hated men and women. But that day when you defied me
in the park, and told me I was sinful and cruel, I began to
notice you closely. I weighed your words, watched you
when you little dreamed that I was present, and often concealed
myself in order to listen to your conversation. I
saw in your character traits that annoyed me, because they
were noble, and unlike what I had believed all womanhood
or girlhood to be. I was aware that you dreaded and disliked
me; I saw that very clearly, every time I had occasion
to speak to you. How it all came to pass I can not tell—I
know not—and it has always been a mystery even to me;
but Edna, after the long lapse of years of sin and reckless
dissipation, my heart stirred and turned to you, child
though you were, and a strange, strange, invincible love for
you sprang from the bitter ashes of a dead affection for
Agnes Hunt. I wondered at myself; I sneered at my
idiotcy; I cursed my mad folly, and tried to believe you as
unprincipled as I had found others; but the singular fascination
strengthened day by day. Finally I determined to
tempt you, hoping that your duplicity and deceit would
wake me from the second dream into which I feared there
was danger of my falling. Thinking that at your age curiosity
was the strongest emotion, I carefully arranged the
interior of the Taj Mahal, so that it would be impossible for
you to open it without being discovered; and putting the
key in your hands, I went abroad. I wanted to satisfy myself
that you were unworthy, and believed you would betray
the trust. For four years I wandered, restless, impatient,
scorning myself more and more because I could not forget
your sweet, pure, haunting face; because, despite my jeers,
I knew that I loved you. At last I wrote to my mother
from Egypt that I would go to Central Persia, and so I intended.
But one night as I sat alone, smoking amid the
ruins of the propylon at Philæ, a vision of Le Bocage rose
before me, and your dear face looked at me from the lotus-crowned
columns of the ancient temple. I forgot the
hate I bore all mankind; I forgot every thing but you;
your pure, calm, magnificent eyes; and the longing to see
you, my darling—the yearning to look into your eyes once
more, took possession of me. I sat there till the great,
golden, dewless dawn of the desert fell upon Egypt, and
then came a struggle long and desperate. I laughed and
swore at my folly; but far down in the abysses of my distorted
nature hope had kindled a little feeble, flickering ray.
I tried to smother it, but its flame clung to some crevice in
my heart, and would not be crushed. While I debated, a
pigeon that dwelt somewhere in the crumbling temple fluttered
down at my feet, cooed softly, looked in my face, then
perched on a mutilated, red granite sphinx immediately in
front of me, and after a moment rose, circled above me in the
pure, rainless air and flew westward. I accepted it as an
omen, and started to America instead of to Persia. On the
night of the tenth of December, four years after I bade you
good-by at the park gate, I was again at Le Bocage.—
Silently and undiscovered I stole into my own house, and
secreted myself behind the curtains in the library. I had
been there one hour when you and Gordon Leigh came in
to examine the Targum. O Edna! how little you dreamed
of the eager, hungry eyes that watched you! During that
hour that you two sat there bending over the same book, I
became thoroughly convinced that while I loved you as I
never expected to love any one, Gordon loved you also, and
intended if possible to make you his wife. I contrasted my
worn, haggard face and grayish locks with his, so full of
manly hope and youthful beauty, and I could not doubt
that any girl would prefer him to me. Edna, my retribution
began then. I felt that my devil was mocking me, as I had
long mocked others, and made me love you when it was
impossible to win you. Then and there I was tempted to
spring upon and throttle you both before he triumphantly
called you his. At last Leigh left, and I escaped to my
own rooms. I was pacing the floor when I heard you cross
the rotunda, and saw the glimmer of the light you carried.
Hoping to see you open the little Taj, I crawled behind the
sarcophagus that holds my two mummies, crouched close to
the floor, and peeped at you across the gilded byssus that
covered them. My eyes, I have often been told, possess
magnetic or mesmeric power. At all events, you felt my
eager gaze, you were restless, and searched the room to
discover whence that feeling of a human presence came.
Darling, were you superstitious, that you avoided looking
into the dark corner where the mummies lay? Presently
you stopped in front of the little tomb, and swept away the
spider-web, and took the key from your pocket, and as you
put it into the lock I almost shouted aloud in my savage
triumph! I absolutely panted to find Leigh's future wife
as unworthy of confidence as I believed the remainder of
her sex. But you did not open it. You merely drove
away the spider and rubbed the marble clean with your
handkerchief, and held the key between your fingers. Then
my heart seemed to stand still, as I watched the light
streaming over your beautiful, holy face and warm crimson
dress; and when you put the key in your pocket and turned
away, my groan almost betrayed me. I had taken out my
watch to see the hour, and in my suspense I clutched it so
tightly that the gold case and the crystal within all crushed
in my hand. You heard the tingling sound and wondered
whence it came; and when you had locked the door and
gone, I raised one of the windows and swung myself down
to the terrace. Do you remember that night?”

“Yes, Mr. Murray.”

Her voice was tremulous and almost inaudible.

“I had business in Tennessee, no matter now, what, or
where, and I went on that night. After a week I returned,
that afternoon when I found you reading in my sitting-room.
Still I was sceptical, and not until I opened the tomb, was
I convinced that you had not betrayed the trust which you
supposed I placed in you. Then as you stood beside me, in
all your noble purity and touching girlish beauty—as you
looked up half reproachfully, half defiantly at me—it cost
me a terrible effort to master myself—to abstain from clasping
you to my heart, and telling you all that you were to
me. Oh! how I longed to take you in my arms, and feed
my poor famished heart with one touch of your lips! I
dared not look at you, lest I should lose my self-control.
The belief that Gordon was a successful rival sealed my
lips on that occasion; and ah! the dreary wretchedness of
the days of suspense that followed. I was a starving beggar
who stood before what I coveted above every thing else
on earth, and saw it labelled with another man's name
and beyond my reach. The daily sight of that emerald ring
on your finger maddened me; and you can form no adequate
idea of the bitterness of feeling with which I noted
my mother's earnest efforts and manœuvres to secure for
Gordon Leigh—to sell to him—the little hand which her
own son would have given worlds to claim in the sight of
God and man! Continually I watched you when you least
suspected me; I strewed infidel books where I knew you
must see them; I tempted you more than you dreamed of;
I teased and tormented and wounded you whenever an opportunity
offered; for I hoped to find some flaw in your

character, some defect in your temper, some inconsistency
between your professions and your practice. I knew Leigh
was not your equal, and I said bitterly, `She is poor and
unknown, and will surely marry him for his money, for his
position—as Agnes would have married me.' But you did
not! and when I knew that you had positively refused his
fortune, I felt that a great dazzling light had broken suddenly
upon my darkened life; and, for the first time, since I
parted with Murray Hammond, tears of joy filled my eyes.
I ceased to struggle against my love—I gave myself up to
it, and only asked, How can I overcome her aversion to
me? You were the only tie that linked me with my race,
and for your sake I almost felt as if I could forget my hate.
But you shrank more and more from me, and my punishment
overtook me when I saw how you hated Clinton Allston's
blood-besmeared hands, and with what unfeigned
horror you regarded his career. When you declared so
vehemently that his fingers should never touch yours—oh!
it was the fearful apprehension of losing you that made me
catch your dear hands and press them to my aching heart. I
was stretched upon a rack that taught me the full import of
Isaac Taylor's grim words, `Remorse is man's dread prerogative!'
Believing that you knew all my history and that
your aversion was based upon it, I was too proud to show
you my affection. Douglass Manning was as much my
friend as I permitted any man to be; we had travelled together
through Arabia, and with his handwriting I was
familiar. Suspecting your literary schemes, and dreading
a rival in your ambition, I wrote to him on the subject, discovered
all I wished to ascertain, and requested him, for my
sake to reconsider, and examine your MS. He did so to
oblige me, and I insisted that he should treat your letters
and your MS. with such severity as to utterly crush your
literary aspirations. O child! do you see how entirely
you fill my mind and heart? How I scrutinize your words
and actions? O my darling—”

He paused and leaned over-her, putting his hand on her
head, but she shook off his touch and exclaimed:

“But Gertrude! Gertrude!”

“Be patient, and you shall know all; for as God reigns
above us, there is no recess of my heart into which you
shall not look. It is, perhaps, needless to tell you that
Estelle came here to marry me for my fortune. It is not
agreeable to say such things of one's own cousin, but
to-day I deal only in truths, and facts sustain me. She
professes to love me! has absolutely avowed it more than
once in days gone by. Whether she really loves any thing
but wealth and luxury, I have never troubled myself to
find out; but my mother fancies that if Estelle were my
wife, I might be less cynical. Once or twice I tried to be
affectionate toward her, solely to see what effect it would
have upon you; but I discovered that you could not easily
be deceived in that direction—the mask was too transparent,
and besides, the game disgusted me. I have no
respect for Estelle, but I have a shadowy traditional reverence
for the blood in her veins, which forbids my flirting
with her as she deserves. The very devil himself brought
Agnes here. She had married a rich old banker only a
few months after Murray's death, and lived in ease and
splendor until a short time since, when her husband failed
and died, leaving her without a cent. She knew how utterly
she had blasted my life, and imagined that I had never
married because I still loved her! With unparalleled effrontery
she came here, and trusting to her wonderfully preserved
beauty, threw herself and her daughter in my way.
When I heard she was at the parsonage, all the old burning
hate leaped up strong as ever. I fancied that she was
the real cause of your dislike to me, and that night, when
the game of billiards ended, I went to the parsonage for
the first time since Murray's death. Oh! the ghostly
thronging memories that met me at the gate, trooped after
me up the walk, and hovered like vultures as I stood in the

shadow of the trees, where my idol and I had chatted and
romped and shouted and whistled in the far past, in the
sinless bygone! Unobserved I stood there, and looked
once more, after the lapse of twenty years, on the face that
had caused my crime and ruin. I listened to her clean
laugh, silvery as when I heard it chiming with Murray's
under the apple-tree on the night that branded me, and
drove me forth to wander like Cain; and I resolved, if she
really loved her daughter, to make her suffer for all that
she had inflicted on me. The first time I met Gertrude I
could have sworn my boyhood's love was restored to me;
she is so entirely the image of what Agnes was. To possess
themselves of my home and property is all that brought
them here; and whether as my wife or as my mother-in-law
I think Agnes cares little. The first she sees is impracticable,
and now to make me wed Gertrude is her aim. Like
mother, like daughter!”

“Oh! no, no! visit not her mother's sins on her innocent
head! Gertrude is true and affectionate, and she loves you
dearly.”

Edna spoke with a great effort, and the strange tones of
her own voice frightened her.

“Loves me? Ha, ha! just about as tenderly as her
mother did before her! That they do both `dearly love'—
my heavy purse, I grant you. Hear me out. Agnes threw
the girl constantly and adroitly in my way; the demon
here in my heart prompted revenge, and, above all, I resolved
to find out whether you were indeed as utterly
indifferent to me as you seemed. I know that jealousy
will make a woman betray her affection sooner than any
other cause, and I deliberately set myself to work to make
you believe that I loved that pretty cheat over yonder at
the parsonage—that frolicsome wax-doll, who would rather
play with a kitten than talk to Cicero; who intercepts me
almost daily, to favor me with manifestations of devotion,
and shows me continually that I have only to put out my

hand and take her to rule over my house, and trample my
heart under her pretty feet! When you gave me that note
of hers a week ago, and looked so calmly, so coolly in my
face, I felt as if all hope were dying in my heart; for I
could not believe that, if you had one atom of affection for
me, you could be so generous, so unselfish, toward one
whom you considered your rival. That night I did not
close my eyes, and had almost decided to revisit South-America;
but next morning my mother told me you were
going to New-York—that all entreaties had failed to shake
your resolution. Then once more a hope cheered me, and
I believed that I understood why you had determined to
leave those whom I know you love tenderly—to quit the
home my mother offered you and struggle among strangers.
Yesterday they told me you would leave on Monday, and I
went out to seek you; but you were with Mr. Hammond,
as usual, and instead of you I met—that curse of my life—
Agnes! Face to face, at last, with my red-lipped Lamia!
Oh! it was a scene that made jubilee down in Pandemonium!
She plead for her child's happiness—ha, ha, ha!—implored
me most pathetically to love her Gertrude as well as Gertrude
loved me, and that my happiness would make me
forget the unfortunate past! She would willingly give me
her daughter, for did she not know how deep, how lasting,
how deathless was my affection? I had Gertrude's whole
heart, and I was too generous to trifle with her tender
love!—Edna, darling! I will not tell you all she said—
you would blush for your sisterhood. But my vengeance
was complete when I declined the honor she was so
eager to force upon me, when I overwhelmed her with my
scorn, and told her that there was only one woman whom
I respected or trusted, only one woman upon the broad
earth whom I loved, only one woman who could ever be
my wife, and her name was—Edna Earl!”

His voice died away, and all was still as the dead in their
grassy graves.

The orphan's face was concealed, and after a moment St.
Elmo Murray opened his arms, and said in that low winning
tone which so many women had found it impossible
to resist: “Come to me now, my pure, noble Edna. You
whom I love, as only such a man as I have shown myself to
be can love.”

“No, Mr. Murray; Gertrude stands between us.”

“Gertrude! Do not make me swear here, in your presence—do
not madden me by repeating her name! I tell
you she is a silly child, who cares no more for me than her
mother did before her. Nothing shall stand between us.
I love you; the God above us is my witness that I love
you as I never loved any human being, and I will not—I
swear I will not live without you! You are mine, and all
the legions in hell shall not part us!”

He stooped, snatched her from the chair as if she had
been an infant, and folded her in his strong arms.

“Mr. Murray, I know she loves you. My poor little
trusting friend! You trifled with her warm heart, as you
hope to trifle with mine; but I know you; you have shown
me how utterly heartless, remorseless, unprincipled you
are. You had no right to punish Gertrude for her mother's
sins; and if you had one spark of honor in your nature, you
would marry her, and try to atone for the injury you have
already done.”

“By pretending to give her a heart which belongs entirely
to you? If I wished to deceive you now, think you
I would have told all that hideous past, which you can not
abhor one half as much as I do?”

“Your heart is not mine! It belongs to sin, or you could
not have so maliciously deceived poor Gertrude. You love
nothing but your ignoble revenge and the gratification of
your self-love! You —”

“Take care, do not rouse me. Be reasonable, little darling.
You doubt my love? Well, I ought not to wonder
at your scepticism after all you have heard. But you can

feel how my heart throbs against your cheek, and if you
will look into my eyes, you will be convinced that I am
fearfully in earnest, when I beg you to be my wife to-morrow—to-day—now!
if you will only let me send for a
minister or a magistrate! You are—”

“You asked Annie to be your wife, and—”

“Hush! hush! Look at me. Edna, raise your head and
look at me.”

She tried to break away, and finding it impossible, pressed
both hands over her face and hid it against his shoulder.

He laughed and whispered:

“My darling, I know what that means. You dare not
look up because you can not trust your own eyes! Because
you dread for me to see something there, which you want
to hide, which you think it your duty to conceal.”

He felt a long shudder creep over her, and she answered
resolutely:

“Do you think, sir, that I could love a murderer? A
man whose hands are red with the blood of the son of my
best friend?”

“Look at me then.”

He raised her head, drew down her hands, took them
firmly in one of his, and placing the other under her chin,
lifted the burning face close to his own.

She dreaded the power of his lustrous, mesmeric eyes,
and instantly her long silky lashes swept her flushed cheeks.

“Ah! you dare not! You can not look me steadily in
the eye and say, `St. Elmo, I never have loved—do not
—and never can love you!' You are too truthful; your
lips can not dissemble. I know you do not want to love
me. Your reason, your conscience forbid it; you are
struggling to crush your heart. You think it your duty to
despise and hate me. But, my own Edna—my darling!
my darling! you do love me! You know you do love me,
though you will not confess it! My proud darling!”

He drew the face tenderly to his own, and kissed her

quivering lips repeatedly; and at last a moan of anguish
told how she was wrestling with her heart.

“Do you think you can hide your love from my eager
eyes? Oh! I know that I am unworthy of you! I feel it
more and more every day, every hour. It is because you
seem so noble—so holy—to my eyes, that I reverence while
I love you. You are so far above all other women—so
glorified in your pure consistent piety—that you only have
the power to make my future life—redeem the wretched
and sinful past. I tempted and tried you, and when you
proved so true and honest and womanly, you kindled a
faint beam of hope that, after all, there might be truth and
saving, purifying power in religion. Do you know that
since this church was finished I have never entered it until
a month ago, when I followed you here, and crouched
down-stairs—yonder behind one of the pillars, and heard
your sacred songs, your hymns so full of grandeur, so full
of pathos, that I could not keep back my tears while I listened?
Since then I have come every Saturday afternoon,
and during the hour spent here my unholy nature was
touched and softened as no sermon ever touched it. Oh!
you wield a power over me—over all my future! which
ought to make you tremble! The first generous impulse
that has stirred my callous bitter soul since I was a boy,
I owe to you. I went first to see poor Reed, in order to
discover what took you so often to that cheerless place;
and my interest in little Huldah arose from the fact that
you loved the child. O my darling! I know I have been
sinful and cruel and blasphemous; but it is not too late for
me to atone! It is not too late for me to do some good in
the world; and if you will only love me, and trust me,
and help me—”

His voice faltered, his tears fell upon her forehead, and
stooping he kissed her lips softly, reverently, as if he realized
the presence of something sacred.

“My precious Edna, no oath shall ever soil my lips

again; the touch of yours has purified them. I have been
mad—I think, for many, many years, and I loathe my past
life; but remember how sorely I was tried, and be merciful
when you judge me. With your dear little hand in mine,
to lead me, I will make amends for the ruin and suffering
I have wrought, and my Edna—my own wife shall save
me!”

Before the orphan's mental vision rose the picture of
Gertrude, the trembling coral mouth, the childish wistful
eyes, the lovely head nestled down so often and so lovingly
on her shoulder; and she saw too the bent figure and
white locks of her beloved pastor, as he sat in his old age,
in his childless desolate home, facing the graves of his murdered
children.

“O Mr. Murray! You can not atone! You can not
call your victims from their tombs. You can not undo
what you have done! What amends can you make to Mr.
Hammond, and to my poor little confiding Gertrude? I
can not help you! I can not save you!”

“Hush! You can, you shall! Do you think I will ever
give you up? Have mercy on my lonely life! my wretched
darkened soul. Lean your dear head here on my heart, and
say, `St. Elmo, what a wife can do to save her erring,
sinful husband, I will do for you.' If I am ever to be
saved, you, you only can effect my redemption; for I trust,
I reverence you. Edna as you value my soul, my eternal
welfare, give yourself to me! Give your pure sinless life
to purify mine.”

With a sudden bound she sprang from his embrace, and
lifted her arms toward the Christ, who seemed to shudder
as the flickering light of fading day fell through waving
foliage upon it.

“Look yonder to Jesus, weeping, bleeding! Only his
blood and tears can wash away your guilt. Mr. Murray, I
can never be your wife. I have no confidence in you.
Knowing how systematically you have deceived others,

how devoid of conscientious scruples you are I should
never be sure that I too was not the victim of your heartless
machinations. Beside, I—”

“Hush! hush! To your keeping I commit my conscience
and my heart.”

“No! no! I am no vicegerent of an outraged and insulted
God! I put no faith in any man, whose conscience
another keeps. From the species of fascination which you
exert, I shrink with unconquerable dread and aversion, and
would almost as soon entertain the thought of marrying
Lucifer himself. Oh! your perverted nature shocks, repels,
astonishes, grieves me. I can neither respect nor trust
you. Mr. Murray, have mercy upon yourself! Go yonder
to Jesus. He only can save and purify you.”

“Edna, you do not, you can not intend to leave me?
Darling—”

He held out his arms and moved toward her, but she
sprang past him, down the steps of the gallery, out of the
church, and paused only at sight of the dark, dull spot on
the white steps, where Annie Hammond had lain insensible.

An hour later, St. Elmo Murray raised his face from the
mahogany railing where it had rested since Edna left him,
and looked around the noble pile, which his munificence
had erected. A full moon eyed him pityingly through the
stained glass, and the gleam of the marble pulpit was chill
and ghostly; and in that weird light the Christ was
threatening, wrathful, appalling.

As St. Elmo stood there alone, confronting the picture—
confronting the past—memory, like the Witch of Endor,
called up visions of the departed that were more terrible
than the mantled form of Israel's prophet; and the proud,
hopeless man bowed his haughty head, with a cry of anguish
that rose mournfully to the vaulted ceiling of the
sanctuary: