University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

THE weather was so inclement on the following
day that no service was held in the church; but,
notwithstanding the heavy rain, Edna went to the
parsonage to bid adieu to her pastor and teacher.
When she ascended the steps Mr. Hammond was walking
up and down the portico, with his hands clasped behind
him, as was his habit when engrossed by earnest thought;
and he greeted his pupil with a degree of mournful tenderness
very soothing to her sad heart.

Leading the way to his study, where Mrs. Powell sat
with an open book on her lap, he said gently:

“Agnes, will you be so kind as to leave us for a while?
This is the last interview I shall have with Edna for a long
time, perhaps forever, and there are some things I wish to
say to her alone. You will find a better light in the dining-room,
where all is quiet.”

As Mrs. Powell withdrew he locked the door, and for
some seconds paced the floor; then taking a seat on the
chintz-covered lounge beside his pupil, he said, eagerly:

“St. Elmo was at the church yesterday afternoon. Are
you willing to tell me what passed between you?”

“Mr. Hammond, he told me his melancholy history. I
know all now—know why he shrinks from meeting you,
whom he has injured so cruelly; know all his guilt and
your desolation.”

The old man bowed his white head on his bosom, and

there was a painful silence. When he spoke, his voice was
scarcely audible.

“The punishment of Eli has fallen heavily upon me, and
there have been hours when I thought that it was greater
than I could bear—that it would utterly crush me; but
the bitterness of the curse has passed away, and I can say
truly of that `meekest angel of God,' the Angel of Patience:

“I tried to train up my children in the fear and admonition
of the Lord; but I must have failed signally in my
duty, though I have never been able to discover in what
respect I was negligent. One of the sins of my life was my
inordinate pride in my only boy—my gifted, gifted, handsome
son. My love for Murray was almost idolatrous; and
when my heart throbbed with proudest hopes and aspirations,
my idol was broken and laid low in the dust; and,
like David mourning for his rebellious child Absalom, I
cried out in my affliction, `My son! my son! would God
I had died for thee!' Murray Hammond was my precious
diadem of earthly glory; and suddenly I found myself uncrowned,
and sackcloth and ashes were my portion.”

“Why did you never confide these sorrows to me? Did
you doubt my earnest sympathy?”

“No, my child; but I thought it best that St. Elmo
should lift the veil and show you all that he wished you to
know. I felt assured that the time would come when he
considered it due to himself to acquaint you with his sad
history; and when I saw him go into the church yesterday
I knew that the hour had arrived. I did not wish to prejudice
you against him; for I believed that through your
agency the prayers of twenty years would be answered,
and that his wandering, embittered heart would follow you

to that cross before which he bowed in his boyhood. Edna,
it was through my son's sin and duplicity that St. Elmo's
noble career was blasted, and his most admirable character
perverted; and I have hoped and believed that through
your influence, my beloved pupil, he would be redeemed
from his reckless course. My dear little Edna, you are very
lovely and winning, and I believed he would love you as he
never loved any one else. Oh! I have hoped every thing
from your influence! Far, far beyond all computation is
the good which a pious, consistent, Christian wife can accomplish
in the heart of a husband who truly loves her.”

“O Mr. Hammond! you pain and astonish me. Surely
you would not be willing to see me marry a man who scoffs
at the very name of religion; who wilfully deceives and
trifles with the feelings of all who are sufficiently credulous
to trust his hollow professions—whose hands are red
with the blood of your children! What hope of happiness
or peace could you indulge for me, in view of such a union?
I should merit all the wretchedness that would inevitably
be my life-long portion if, knowing his crimes, I could consent
to link my future with his.”

“He would not deceive you, my child! If you knew him
as well as I do, if you could realize all that he was before
his tender, loving heart was stabbed by the two whom he
almost adored, you would judge him more leniently
Edna, if I whom he has robbed of all that made life beautiful—if
I, standing here in my lonely old age, in sight of the
graves of my murdered darlings—if I can forgive him, and
pray for him, and, as God is my witness, love him! you
have no right to visit my injuries and my sorrows upon
him!”

Edna looked in amazement at his troubled earnest countenance,
and exclaimed.

“Oh! if he knew all your noble charity, your unparalleled
magnanimity, surely, surely, your influence would be
his salvation! His stubborn bitter heart would be melted.

But, sir, I should have a right to expect Annie's sad fate if
I could forget her sufferings and her wrongs.”

Mr. Hammond rose and walked to the window, and
after a time, when he resumed his seat, his eyes were full
of tears, and his wrinkled face was strangely pallid.

“My darling Annie, my sweet fragile flower, my precious
little daughter, so like her sainted mother! Ah! it is
not surprising that she could not resist his fascinations.
But, Edna, he never loved my pet lamb. Do you know
that you have become almost as dear to me as my own
dead child? She deceived me! she was willing to forsake
her father in his old age; but through long years you have
never once betrayed my perfect confidence.”

The old man put his thin hand on the orphan's head and
turned the countenance toward him.

“My dear little girl, you will not think me impertinently
curious when I ask you a question, which my sincere affection
for and interest in you certainly sanctions? Do you
love St. Elmo?”

“Mr. Hammond, it is not love; for esteem, respect, confidence
belong to love: but I can not deny that he exerts a
very singular, a wicked fascination over me. I dread his evil
influence, I avoid his presence, and know that he is utterly
unworthy of any woman's trust; and yet—and yet—O
sir! I feel that I am very weak, and I fear that I am
unwomanly; but I can not despise, I can not hate him as
I ought to do!”

“Is not this feeling, on your part, one of the causes that
hurries you away to New York?”

“That is certainly one of the reasons why I am anxious
to go as early as possible. O Mr. Hammond! much as I
love, much as I owe you and Mrs. Murray, I sometimes
wish that I had never come here! Never seen Le Bocage
and the mocking, jeering demon who owns it!”

“Try to believe that somehow in the mysterious Divine
economy it is all for the best. In reviewing the apparently

accidental circumstances that placed you among us, I
have thought that, because this was your appointed field of
labor, God in his wisdom brought you where he designed
you to work. Does Mrs. Murray know that her son has
offered to make you his wife?”

“No! no! I hope she never will; for it would mortify
her exceedingly to know that he could be willing to give
his proud name to one of whose lineage she is so ignorant.
How did you know it?”

“I knew what his errand must be when he forced himself
to visit a spot so fraught with painful memories as my
church. Edna, I shall not urge you; but ponder well the
step you are taking; for St. Elmo's future will be colored
by your decision. I have an abiding and comforting faith
that he will yet lift himself out of the abyss of sinful dissipation
and scoffing scepticism, and your hand would aid him
as none other human can.”

“Mr. Hammond it seems incredible that you can plead
for him. Oh! do not tempt me! Do not make me believe
that I could restore his purity of faith and life. Do not tell
me that it would be right to give my hand to a blasphemous
murderer? Oh! my own heart is weak enough already!
I know that I am right in my estimate of his unscrupulous
character, and I am neither so vain nor so blind as to
imagine that my feeble efforts could accomplish for him,
what all your noble magnanimity and patient endeavors
have entirely failed to effect. If he can obstinately resist
the influence of your life, he would laugh mine to scorn.
It is hard enough for me to leave him, when I feel that
duty demands it. O my dear Mr. Hammond! do not attempt
to take from me that only staff which can carry me
firmly away—do not make my trial even more severe.
I must not see his face; for I will not be his wife. Instead
of weakening my resolution by holding out flattering hopes
of reforming him, pray for me! oh! pray for me! that I
may be strengthened to flee from a great temptation! I

will marry no man who is not an earnest, humble believer
in the religion of our Lord Jesus Christ. Rather than become
the wife of a sacrilegious scoffer, such as I know Mr.
Murray to be, I will, so help me God! live and work alone,
and go down to my grave Edna Earl!”

The minister sighed heavily.

“Bear one thing in mind. It has been said, that in disavowing
guardianship, we sometimes slaughter Abel. You
can not understand my interest in St. Elmo? Remember
that if his wretched soul is lost at last, it will be required
at the hands of my son, in that dread day—Dies Irœ! Dies
Illa!—when we shall all stand at the final judgment! Do
you wonder that I struggle in prayer, and in all possible
human endeavor to rescue him from ruin; so that when I
am called from earth, I can meet the spirit of my only son
with the blessed tidings that the soul he jeoparded, and
well-nigh wrecked, has been redeemed! is safe! anchored
once more in the faith of Christ? But I will say no more.
Your own heart and conscience must guide you in this matter.
It would pour a flood of glorious sunshine upon my
sad and anxious heart, as I go down to my grave, if I could
know that you, whose life and character I have in great degree
moulded, were instrumental in saving one whom I
have loved so long, so well, and under such afflicting circumstances,
as my poor St. Elmo.”

“To the mercy of his Maker, and the intercession of his
Saviour, I commit him.

A short silence ensued, and at last Edna rose to say good-bye.

“Do you still intend to leave at four o'clock in the morning?
I fear you will have bad weather for your journey.”

“Yes, sir, I shall certainly start to-morrow. And now,
I must leave you. O my best friend! how can I tell you
good-bye!”

The minister folded her in his trembling arms, and his

silver locks mingled with her black hair, while he solemnly
blessed her. She sobbed as he pressed his lips to her fore
head, and gently put her from him; and turning, she hurried
away, anxious to escape the sight of Gertrude's accusing
face; for she supposed that Mrs. Powell had repeated
to her daughter Mr. Murray's taunting words.

Since the previous evening she had not spoken to St.
Elmo, who did not appear at breakfast; and when she passed
him in the hall an hour later, he was talking to his mother,
and took no notice of her bow.

Now as the carriage approached the house, she glanced
in the direction of his apartments, and saw him sitting at
the window, with his elbow resting on the sill, and his
cheek on his hand.

She went at once to Mrs. Murray, and the interview was
long and painful. The latter wept freely, and insisted that
if the orphan grew weary of teaching, (as she knew would
happen,) she should come back immediately to Le Bocage;
where a home would always be hers, and to which a true
friend would welcome her.

At length, when Estelle Harding came in with some letters,
which she wished to submit to her aunt's inspection,
Edna retreated to her own quiet room. She went to her
bureau to complete the packing of her clothes, and found
on the marble slab a box and note directed to her.

Mr. Murray's handwriting was remarkably elegant, and
Edna broke the seal which bore his motto, Nemo me impune
lacessit.

Ah! how her tortured heart writhed and bled; how piteously
it pleaded for him, and for itself!

Edna opened the locket, and if Gertrude had stepped into
the golden frame, the likeness could not have been more
startling. She looked at it until her lips blanched and were
tightly compressed, and the memory of Gertrude became
paramount. Murray Hammond's face she barely glanced
at, and its extraordinary beauty stared at her like that of
some avenging angel. With a shudder she put it away,
and turned to the letters which St. Elmo had written to
Agnes and to Murray, in the early, happy days of his engagement.

Tender, beautiful, loving letters, that breathed the most
devoted attachment and the purest piety; letters that were
full of lofty aspirations, and religious fervor, and generous
schemes for the assistance and enlightenment of the poor
about Le Bocage; and especially for “my noble, matchless
Murray.” Among the papers were several designs for
charitable buildings; a house of industry, an asylum for
the blind, and a free school-house. In an exquisite ivory
casket, containing a splendid set of diamonds, and the costly
betrothal ring, bearing the initials, Edna found a sheet of
paper, around which the blazing necklace was twisted.
Disengaging it, she saw that it was a narration of all that
had stung him to desperation, on the night of the murder.

As she read the burning taunts, the insults, the ridicule
heaped by the two under the apple-tree upon the fond, faithful,
generous, absent friend, she felt the indignant blood
gush into her face; but she read on and on, and two hours
elapsed ere she finished the package. Then came a trial, a
long, fierce, agonizing trial, such as few women have ever
been called upon to pass through; such as the world believes
no woman ever triumphantly endured. Girded by
prayer, the girl went down resolutely into the flames of the
furnace, and the ordeal was terrible indeed. But as often
as Love showed her the figure of Mr. Murray, alone in his
dreary sitting-room, waiting, watching for her, she turned
and asked of Duty, the portrait of Gertrude's sweet, anxious,
face; the picture of dying Annie; the mournful countenance
of a nun, shut up by iron bars from God's beautiful
world, from the home and the family who had fondly cherished
her in her happy girlhood, ere St. Elmo trailed his
poison across her sunny path.

After another hour, the orphan went to her desk, and
while she wrote, a pale, cold rigidity settled upon her features,
which told that she was calmly, deliberately shaking
hands with the expelled, the departing Hagar of her heart's
hope and happiness.

Ringing for a servant, she sent back the box, and even
his own note, which she longed to keep, but would not
trust herself to see again; and dreading reflection, and too

miserable to sleep, she went to Mrs. Murray's room, and
remained with her till three o'clock.

Then Mr. Murray's voice rang through the house, calling
for the carriage, and as Edna put on her bonnet and shawl,
he knocked at his mother's door.

“It is raining very hard, and you must not think of going
to the dépôt, as you intended.”

“But, my son, the carriage is close and—”

“I can not permit you to expose yourself so unnecessarily,
and, in short, I will not take you, so there is an end of it.
Of course I can stand the weather, and I will ride over with
Edna, and put her under the care of some one on the train.
As soon as possible send her down to the carriage. I will
order her trunks strapped on.”

He was very pale and stern, and his voice rang coldly
clear as he turned and went down-stairs.

The parting was very painful, and Mrs. Murray followed
the orphan to the front-door.

“St. Elmo, I wish you would let me go. I do not mind
the rain.”

“Impossible. You know I have an unconquerable horror
of scenes, and I do not at all fancy witnessing one that
threatens to last until the train leaves. Go up-stairs and
cry yourself to sleep in ten minutes; that will be much
more sensible. Come, Edna, are you ready?”

The orphan was folded in a last embrace, and Mr. Murray
held out his hand, drew her from his mother's arms, and
taking his seat beside her in the carriage, ordered the coachman
to drive on.

The night was very dark, the wind sobbed down the
avenue, and the rain fell in such torrents that as Edna
leaned out for a last look at the stately mansion, which she
had learned to love so well, she could only discern the outline
of the bronze monsters by the glimmer of the light
burning in the hall. She shrank far back in one corner,
and her fingers clutched each other convulsively; but when

they had passed through the gate and entered the main
road Mr. Murray's hand was laid on hers—the cold fingers
were unlocked gently but firmly, and raised to his lips.

She made an effort to withdraw them, but found it useless,
and the trial which she had fancied was at an end seemed
only beginning.

“Edna this is the last time I shall ever speak to you of
myself; the last time I shall ever allude to all that has
passed. Is it entirely useless for me to ask you to reconsider?
If you have no pity for me, have some mercy on
yourself. You can not know how I dread the thought of
your leaving me, and being roughly handled by a cold, selfish,
ruthless world. Oh! it maddens me when I think of
your giving your precious life, which would so glorify my
home, and gladden my desolate heart, to a public, who will
trample upon you if possible, and, if it can not entirely crush
you, will only value you as you deserve, when, with ruined
health and withered hopes, you sink into the early grave
malice and envy have dug for you. Already your dear face
has grown pale, and your eyes have a restless, troubled
look, and shadows are gathering about your young, pure,
fresh spirit. My darling, you are not strong enough to
wrestle with the world; you will be trodden down by the
masses in this conflict, upon which you enter so eagerly.
Do you not know that `literati' means literally the branded?
The lettered slave! Oh! if not for my sake, at least
for your own, reconsider before the hot irons sear your
brow; and hide it here, my love; keep it white and pure
and unfurrowed here, in the arms that will never weary of
sheltering and clasping you close and safe from the burning
brand of fame. Literati! A bondage worse than Roman
slavery! Help me to make a proper use of my fortune, and
you will do more real good to your race than by all you
can ever accomplish with your pen, no matter how successful
it may prove. If you were selfish and heartless as other
women, adulation and celebrity and the praise of the public

might satisfy you. But you are not, and I have studied
your nature too thoroughly to mistake the result of your
ambitious career. My darling, ambition is the mirage of
the literary desert you are anxious to traverse; it is the
Bahr Sheitan, the Satan's water, which will ever recede and
mock your thirsty, toil-spent soul. Dear little pilgrim, do
not scorch your feet and wear out your life in the hot,
blinding sands, struggling in vain for the constantly fading,
vanishing oasis of happy literary celebrity. Ah! the Sahara
of letters is full of bleaching bones that tell where many of
your sex as well as of mine fell and perished miserably,
even before the noon of life. Ambitious spirit, come, rest in
peace in the cool, quiet, happy, palm-grove that I offer you.
My shrinking violet, sweeter than all Pæstum boasts! You
can not cope successfully with the world of selfish men and
frivolous, heartless women, of whom you know absolutely
nothing. To-day I found a passage which you had marked
in one of my books, and it echoes ceaselessly in my heart:
He had passed his arm around her and drawn her close
to his side, and the pleading tenderness of his low voice was
indeed hard to resist.

“No, Mr. Murray, my decision is unalterable. If you do
really love me, spare me, spare me, further entreaty. Before

we part there are some things I should like to say, and I
have little time left. Will you hear me?”

He did not answer, but tightened his arm, drew her head
to his bosom, and leaned his face down on hers.

“Mr. Murray, I want to leave my Bible with you, because
there are many passages marked which would greatly
comfort and help you. It is the most precious thing I possess,
for Grandpa gave it to me when I was a little girl, and
I could not bear to leave it with any one but you. I have
it here in my hand; will you look into it sometimes if I give
it to you?”

He merely put out his hand and took it from her.

She paused a few seconds, and as he remained silent, she
continued:

“Mr. Hammond is the best friend you have on earth.
Yesterday, having seen you enter the church and suspecting
what passed, he spoke to me of you, and oh! he pleaded
for you as only he could! He urged me not to judge you
too harshly; not to leave you, and these were his words:
`Edna, if I, whom he has robbed of all that made life beautiful;
if I, standing here alone in my old age, in sight of
the graves of my murdered darlings, if I can forgive him,
and pray for him, and, as God is my witness, love him! you
have no right to visit my injuries and my sorrows upon
him!' Mr. Murray, he can help you, and he will, if you
will only permit him. If you could realize how deeply he
is interested in your happiness, you could not fail to reverence
that religion which enables him to triumph over all
the natural feelings of resentment. Mr. Murray, you have
declared again and again that you love me. Oh! if it be
true, meet me in heaven! I know that I am weak and sinful;
but I am trying to correct the faults of my character, I
am striving to do what I believe to be my duty, and I hope
at last to find a home with my God. O sir! I am not so
entirely ambitious as you seem to consider me. Believe
me:

For several years, ever since you went abroad, I have been
praying for you; and while I live I shall not cease to do so.
Oh! will you not pray for yourself? Mr. Murray, I believe
I shall not be happy even in heaven if I do not see you
there. On earth we are parted—your crimes divide us; but
there! there! Oh! for my sake make an effort to redeem
yourself, and meet me there!”

She felt his strong frame tremble, and a heavy shuddering
sigh broke from his lips and swept across her cheek.
But when he spoke his words contained no hint of the promise
she longed to receive:

“Edna, my shadow has fallen across your heart, and I
am not afraid that you will forget me. You will try to do
so, you will give me as little thought as possible; you will
struggle to crush your aching heart, and endeavor to be
famous. But amid your ovations the memory of a lonely
man, who loves you infinitely better than all the world for
which you forsook him, will come like a breath from the
sepulchre, to wither your bays; and my words, my pleading
words, will haunt you, rising above the pæans of your
public worshippers. When the laurel crown you covet now
shall become a chaplet of thorns piercing your temples, or a
band of iron that makes your brow ache, you will think
mournfully of the days gone by, when I prayed for the privilege
of resting your weary head here on my heart. You
can not forget me. Sinful and all unworthy as I confess myself,
I am conqueror, I triumph now, even though you never
permit me to look upon your face again; for I believe I have
a place in my darling's heart which no other man, which
not the whole world can usurp or fill! You are too proud
to acknowledge it, too truthful to deny it; but, my pure
Pearl, my heart feels it as well as yours, and it is a comfort
of which all time can not rob me. Without it, how could I

face my future, so desolate, sombre, lonely? Oh! indeed!
indeed:
Edna, the hour has come when, in accordance with your
own decree, we part. For twenty years no woman's lips,
except my mother's, have touched mine until yesterday, when
they pressed yours. Perhaps we may never meet again in
this world, and, ah! do not shrink away from me, I want to
kiss you once more, my darling! my darling! I shall wear
it on my lips till death stiffens them; and I am not at all
afraid that any other man will ever be allowed to touch
lips that belong to me alone; that I have made, and here
seal, all my own! Good-bye”

He strained her to him and pressed his lips twice to hers,
then the carriage stopped at the railroad station.

He handed her out, found a seat for her in the cars, which
had just arrived, arranged her wrappings comfortably, and
went back to attend to her trunks. She sat near an open
window, and though it rained heavily, he buttoned his coat
to the throat, and stood just beneath it, with his eyes bent
down. Twice she pronounced his name, but he did not
seem to hear her, and Edna put her hand lightly on his
shoulder and said:

“Do not stand here in the rain. In a few minutes we
shall start, and I prefer that you should not wait. Please
go home at once, Mr. Murray.”

He shook his head, but caught her hand and leaned his
cheek against the soft little palm, passing it gently and
caressingly over his haggard face.

The engine whistled; Mr. Murray pressed a long, warm
kiss on the hand he had taken, the cars moved on; and as
he lifted his hat, giving her one of his imperial, graceful

bows Edna had a last glimpse of the dark, chiselled, repulsive
yet handsome face that had thrown its baleful image
deep in her young heart, and defied all her efforts to expel
it. The wind howled around the cars, the rain fell heavily,
beating a dismal tattoo on the glass, the night was mournfully
dreary, and the orphan sank back and lowered her
veil, and hid her face in her hands.

Henceforth she felt that in obedience to her own decision
and fiat