University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

DURING the first few months after her removal to
New-York, Edna received frequent letters from
Mrs. Murray and Mr. Hammond; but as winter
advanced they wrote more rarely and hurriedly,
and finally many weeks elapsed without bringing any
tidings from Le Bocage. St. Elmo's name was never mentioned,
and while the girl's heart ached, she crushed it more
ruthlessly day by day, and in retaliation imposed additional
and unremitting toil upon her brain.

Mr. Manning had called twice to escort her to the libraries
and art-galleries, and occasionally he sent her new
books, and English and French periodicals; but his chill,
imperturbable calmness oppressed and embarrassed Edna,
and formed a barrier to all friendly warmth in their intercourse.
He so completely overawed her, that in his august
presence she was unable to do herself justice, and felt
that she was not gaining ground in his good opinion. The
brooding serenity of his grave, Egyptic face was not contagious;
and she was conscious of a vague disquiet, a painful
restlessness, when in his company and under his cold,
changeless eyes.

One morning in January as she sat listening to Felix's
recitations, Mrs. Andrews came into the school-room with
an open note in one hand, and an exquisite bouquet in the
other.

“Miss Earl, here is an invitation for you to accompany
Mr. Manning to the opera, to-night; and here, too, is a bouquet

from the same considerate gentleman. As he does me
the honor to request my company also, I came to confer
with you before sending a reply. Of course you will go?”

“Yes, Mrs. Andrews, if you will go with me.”

Edna bent over her flowers, and recognizing many favorites
that recalled the hot-house at Le Bocage, her eyes filled
with tears, and she hastily put her lips to the snowy cups
of an oxalis. How often she had seen just such fragile
petals nestling in the button-hole of Mr. Murray's coat.

“I shall write and invite him to come early and take tea
with us. Now, Miss Earl, pardon my candor, I should like
to know what you intend to wear? You know that Mr.
Manning is quite lionized here, and you will have to face a
terrific battery of eyes and lorgnettes; for every body will
stretch his or her neck to find out, first, who you are, and
secondly, how you are dressed. Now I think I understand
rather better than you do what is comme il faut in these
matters, and I hope you will allow me to dictate on this
occasion. Moreover, our distinguished escort is extremely
fastidious concerning ladies' toilettes.”

“Here are my keys, Mrs. Andrews; examine my wardrobe
and select what you consider appropriate for to-night.”

“On condition that you permit me to supply any deficiencies
which I may discover? Come to my room at six
o'clock, and let Victorine dress your hair. Let me see, I
expect à la Grec will best suit your head and face.”

Edna turned to her pupils and their books, but all day
the flowers in the vase on the table prattled of days gone
by; of purple sunsets streaming through golden-starred
acacia boughs; of long, languid, luxurious Southern afternoons
dying slowly on beds of heliotrope and jasmine, spicy
geraniums and gorgeous pelargoniums; of dewy, delicious
summer mornings, for ever and ever past, when standing
beside a quivering snow-bank of Lamarque roses, she had
watched Tamerlane and his gloomy rider go down the shadowy
avenue of elms.

The monotonous hum of the children's voices seemed
thin and strange and far, far off, jarring the sweet bouquet
babble; and still as the hours passed, and the winter day
waned, the flower Fugue swelled on and on, through the
cold and dreary chambers of her heart; now rising stormy
and passionate, like a battle-blast, from the deep orange
trumpet of a bignonia; and now whispering and sobbing
and pleading, from the pearly white lips of hallowed oxalis.

When she sat that night in Mr. Manning's box at the
Academy of Music, the editor raised his opera-glass, swept
the crowded house, scanning the lovely, beaming faces
wreathed with smiles, and then his grave, piercing glance
came back and dwelt on the countenance at his side. The
cherry silk lining and puffings on her opera-cloak threw a
delicate stain of color over her exquisitely moulded cheeks,
and in the braid of black hair which rested like a coronal
on her polished brow, burned a scarlet anemone. Her long
lashes drooped as she looked down at the bouquet between
her fingers, and listening to the Fugue which memory played
on the petals, she sighed involuntarily.

“Miss Earl, is this your first night at the opera?”

“No, sir; I was here once before with Mr. Andrews and
his children.”

“I judge from your writings that you are particularly
fond of music.”

“Yes, sir; I think few persons love it better than I do.”

“What style do you prefer?”

“Sacred music—oratorios rather than operas.”

The orchestra began an overture of Verdi's, and Edna's
eyes went back to her flowers.

Presently Mrs. Andrews said eagerly:

“Look, Miss Earl! Yonder, in the box directly opposite,
is the celebrated Sir Roger Percival, the English nobleman
about whom all Gotham is running mad. If he has not
more sense than most men of his age, his head will be completely
turned by the flattery heaped upon him. What a

commentary on Republican Americans, that we are so dazzled
by the glitter of a title! However, he really is very
agreeable; I have met him several times, dined with him
last week at the Coltons. He has been watching us for
some minutes. Ah! there is a bow for me; and one I presume
for you, Mr. Manning.”

“Yes, I knew him abroad. We spent a month together
at Dresden, and his brain is strong enough to bear all the
adulation New-Yorkers offer his title.”

Edna looked into the opposite box, and saw a tall, elegantly-dressed
man, with huge whiskers, and a glittering
opera-glass; and then as the curtain rose on the first act of
“Ernani,” she turned to the stage, and gave her entire attention
to the music.

At the close of the second act Mrs. Andrews said:

“Pray, who is that handsome man down yonder in the
parquet, fanning himself with a libretto? I do not think
his eyes have moved from this box for the last ten minutes.
He is a stranger to me.”

She turned her fan in the direction of the person indicated,
and Mr. Manning looked down and answered:

“He is unknown to me.”

Edna's eyes involuntarily wandered over the sea of heads,
and the editor saw her start and lean forward, and noticed
the sudden joy that flashed into her face, as she met the
earnest, upward gaze of Gordon Leigh.

“An acquaintance of yours, Miss Earl?”

“Yes, sir; an old friend from the South.”

The door of the box opened, and Sir Roger Percival came
in and seated himself near Mrs. Andrews, who in her cordial
welcome seemed utterly to forget the presence of the
governess.

Mr. Manning sat close to Edna, and taking a couple of
letters from his pocket he laid them on her lap, saying:

“These letters were directed to my care by persons who
are ignorant of your name and address. If you will not

consider me unpardonably curious, I should like to know
the nature of their contents.”

She broke the seals and read the most flattering commendation
of her magazine sketches, the most cordial thanks for
the pleasure derived from their perusal; but the signatures
were unknown to her.

A sudden wave of crimson surged into her face as she
silently put the letters into Mr. Manning's hand, and
watched his grave, fixed, undemonstrative features, while
he read, refolded, and returned them to her.

“Miss Earl, I have received several documents of a similar
character asking for your address. Do you still desire
to write incognito, or do you wish your name given to your
admirers?”

“That is a matter which I am willing to leave to your
superior judgment.”

“Pardon me, but I much prefer that you determine it for
yourself.”

“Then you may give my name to those who are sufficiently
interested in me to write and make the inquiry.”

Mr. Manning smiled slightly, and lowered his voice as
he said:

“Sir Roger Percival came here to-night to be introduced
to you. He has expressed much curiosity to see the author
of the last article which you contributed to the magazine;
and I told him that you would be in my box this evening.
Shall I present him now?”

Mr. Manning was rising, but Edna put her hand on his
arm, and answered hurriedly:

“No, no! He is engaged in conversation with Mrs. Andrews,
and, moreover, I believe I do not particularly desire
to be presented to him.”

“Here comes your friend; I will vacate this seat in his
favor.”

He rose, bowed to Gordon Leigh, and gave him the chair
which he had occupied.

“Edna! how I have longed to see you once more!”

Gordon's hand seized hers, and his handsome face was
eloquent with feelings which he felt no inclination to conceal.

“The sight of your countenance is an unexpected pleasure
in New-York. Mr. Leigh, when did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. Mr. Hammond gave me your address,
and I called to see you, but was told that you were here.”

“How are they all at home?”

“Do you mean at Le Bocage or the Parsonage?”

“I mean how are all my friends?”

“Mrs. Murray is very well, Miss Estelle, ditto. Mr. Hammond
has been sick, but was better and able to preach before
I left. I brought a letter for you from him, but unfortunately
left it in the pocket of my travelling coat. Edna,
you have changed very much since I saw you last.”

“In what respect, Mr. Leigh?”

The crash of the orchestra filled the house, and people
turned once more to the stage. Standing with his arms
folded, Mr. Manning saw the earnest look on Gordon's face
as, with his arm resting on the back of Edna's chair, he talked
in a low eager tone; and a pitying smile partially curved
the editor's granite mouth as he noticed the expression of
pain on the girl's face, and heard her say coldly:

“No, Mr. Leigh; what I told you then I repeat now.
Time has made no change.”

The opera ended, the curtain fell, and an enthusiastic
audience called out the popular prima donna.

While bouquets were showered upon her, Mr. Manning
stooped and put his hand on Edna's:

“Shall I throw your tribute for you?”

She hastily caught the bouquet from his fingers, and replied:

“Oh! no, thank you! I am so selfish, I can not spare it.”

“I shall call at ten o'clock to-morrow to deliver your
letter,” said Gordon, as he stood hat in hand.

“I shall be glad to see you, Mr. Leigh.”

He shook hands with her and with Mr. Manning, to whom
she had introduced him, and left the box.

Sir Roger Percival gave his arm to Mrs. Andrews, and
the editor drew Edna's cloak over her shoulders, took her
hand and led her down the steps.

As her little gloved fingers rested in his, the feeling of
awe and restraint melted away, and looking into his face
she said:

“Mr. Manning, I do not think you will ever know half
how much I thank you for all your kindness to an unknown
authorling. I have enjoyed the music very much indeed.
How is Lila to-night?'

A slight tremor crossed his lips; the petrified hawthorn
was quivering into life.

“She is quite well, thank you. Pray what do you know
about her? I was not aware that I had ever mentioned
her name in your presence.”

“My pupil Felix is her most devoted knight, and I see
her almost every afternoon when I go with the children to
Central Park.”

They reached the carriage where the Englishman stood
talking to Mrs. Andrews, and when Mr. Manning had handed
Edna in, he turned and said something to Sir Roger,
who laughed lightly and walked away.

During the ride Mrs. Andrews talked volubly of the foreigner's
ease and elegance and fastidious musical taste, and
Mr. Manning listened courteously and bowed coldly in
reply. When they reached home she invited him to dinner
on the following Thursday, to meet Sir Roger Percival.

As the editor bade them good night, he said to Edna:

“Go to sleep at once; do not sit up to work to-night.”

Did she follow his sage advice? Ask of the stars that
watched her through the long winter night, and the dappled
dawn that saw her stooping wearily over her desk.

At the appointed hour on the following morning Mr.

Leigh called, and after some desultory remarks he asked,
rather abruptly:

“Has St. Elmo Murray written to you about his last
whim?”

“I do not correspond with Mr. Murray.”

“Every body wonders what droll freak will next seize
him. Reed, the blacksmith, died several months ago and,
to the astonishment of our people, Mr. Murray has taken
his orphan, Huldah, to Le Bocage; has adopted her I believe;
at all events, is educating her.”

Edna's face grew radiant.

“Oh! I am glad to hear it! Poor little Huldah needed a
friend, and she could not possibly have fallen into kinder
hands than Mr. Murray's.”

“There certainly exists some diversity of opinion on that
subject. He is rather too grim a guardian, I fancy, for one
so young as Huldah Reed.”

“Is Mr. Hammond teaching Huldah?”

“Oh! no. Herein consists the wonder. Murray himself
hears her lessons, so Estelle told my sister. A propos!
rumor announces the approaching marriage of the cousins.
My sister informed me that it would take place early in the
spring.”

“Do you allude to Mr. Murray and Miss Harding?”

“I do. They will go to Europe immediately after their
marriage.”

Gordon looked searchingly at his companion, but saw
only a faint incredulous smile cross her calm face.

“My sister is Estelle's confidant, so you see I speak advisedly.
I know that her trousseau has been ordered from
Paris.”

Edna's fingers closed spasmodically over each other, but
she laughed as she answered:

“How then dare you betray her confidence? Mr. Leigh,
how long will you remain in New-York?”

“I shall leave to-morrow, unless I have reason to hope

that a longer visit will give you pleasure. I came here
solely to see you.”

He attempted to unclasp her fingers, but she shook off
his hand and said quickly:

“I know what you are about to say, and I would rather
not hear what would only distress us both. If you wish
me to respect you, Mr. Leigh, you must never again allude
to a subject which I showed you last night was exceedingly
painful to me. While I value you as a friend, and am
rejoiced to see you again, I should regret to learn that you
had prolonged your stay even one hour on my account.”

“You are ungrateful, Edna! And I begin to realize that
you are utterly heartless.”

“If I am, at least I have never trifled with or deceived
you, Mr. Leigh.”

“You have no heart, or you certainly could not so coldly
reject an affection which any other woman would proudly
accept. A few years hence, when your insane ambition is
fully satiated, and your beauty fades, and your writings pall
upon public taste, and your smooth-tongued flatterers forsake
your shrine to bow before that of some new and more
popular idol, then Edna, you will rue your folly.”

She rose and answered quietly:

“The future may contain only disappointments for me,
but however lonely, however sad my lot may prove, I think
I shall never fall so low as to regret not having married a
man whom I find it impossible to love. The sooner this interview
ends the longer our friendship will last. My time
is not now my own, and, as my duties claim me in the
school-room, I will bid you good-bye.”

“Edna, if you send me from you now, you shall never
look upon my face again in this world!”

Mournfully her tearful eyes sought his, but her voice was
low and steady as she put out both hands, and said solemnly:

“Farewell, dear friend. God grant that when next we

see each other's faces they may be overshadowed by the
shining, white plumes of our angel wings, in that city of
God `where the wicked cease from troubling and the
weary are at rest.' `Never again in this world,' ah! such
words are dreary and funereal as the dull fall of clods on a
coffin-lid; but so be it. Thank God! time brings us all to
one inevitable tryst before the great, white throne.”

He took the hands, bowed his forehead upon them and
groaned; then drew them to his lips and left her.

With a slow, weary step she turned and went up to her
room and read Mr. Hammond's letter. It was long and
kind, full of affection and wise counsel, but contained no
allusion to Mr. Murray.

As she refolded it she saw a slip of paper which had
fallen unnoticed on the carpet, and picking it up she read
these words:

“It grieves me to have to tell you that, after all, I fear
St. Elmo will marry Estelle Harding. He does not love
her, she can not influence him to redeem himself; his future
looks hopeless indeed. Edna, my child! what have you
done! Oh! what have you done!”

Her heart gave a sudden, wild bound, then a spasm
seemed to seize it, and presently the fluttering ceased, her
pulses stopped, and a chill darkness fell upon her.

Her head sank heavily on her chest, and when she recovered
her memory she felt an intolerable sensation of suffocation,
and a sharp pain that seemed to stab the heart, whose
throbs were slow and feeble.

She raised the window and leaned out panting for breath,
and the freezing wind powdered her face with fine snow-flakes,
and sprinkled its fairy flower-crystals over her
hair.

The outer world was chill and dreary, the leafless limbs
of the trees in the park looked ghostly and weird against
the dense dun clouds which seemed to stretch like a smoke
mantle just above the sea of roofs; and, dimly seen through

the white mist, Brooklyn's heights and Staten's hills were
huge outlines monstrous as Echidna.

Physical pain blanched Edna's lips, and she pressed her
hand repeatedly to her heart, wondering what caused those
keen pangs. At last, when the bodily suffering passed
away, and she sat down exhausted, her mind reverted to
the sentence in Mr. Hammond's letter.

She knew the words were not lightly written, and that
his reproachful appeal had broken from the depths of his
aching heart, and was intended to rouse her to some action.

“I can do nothing, say nothing! Must sit still and wait
patiently—prayerfully. To-day, if I could put out my
hand and touch Mr. Murray, and bind him to me for ever, I
would not. No, no! Not a finger must I lift, even between
him and Estelle! But he will not marry her! I
know—I feel that he will not. Though I never look upon
his face again, he belongs to me! He is mine, and no other
woman can take him from me.”

A strange, mysterious, shadowy smile settled on her
pallid features, and faintly and dreamily she repeated:

Her lashes drooped, her head fell back against the top of
the chair, and she lost all her woes until Felix's voice
roused her, and she saw the frightened boy standing at her
side, shaking her hand and calling piteously upon her.

“Oh! I thought you were dead! You looked so white
and felt so cold. Are you very sick? Shall I go for
mamma?”

For a moment she looked in his face with a perplexed,
bewildered expression, then made an effort to rise.

“I suppose that I must have fainted, for I had a terrible
pain here, and—” She laid her hand over her
heart.

“Felix, let us go down-stairs. I think if your mother
would give me some wine, it might strengthen me.”

Notwithstanding the snow Mrs. Andrews had gone out;
but Felix had the wine brought to the school-room, and
after a little while the blood showed itself shyly in the governess's
white lips, and she took the boy's Latin book and
heard him recite his lesson.

The day appeared wearily long, but she omitted none of the
appointed tasks, and it was nearly nine o'clock before Felix
fell asleep that night. Softly unclasping his thin fingers
which clung to her hand, she went up to her own room, feeling
the full force of those mournful words in Eugénie de
Guérin's Journal:

“It goes on in the soul. No one is aware of what I feel;
no one suffers from it. I only pour out my heart before
God—and here. Oh! to-day what efforts I make to shake
off this profitless sadness—this sadness without tears—arid,
bruising the heart like a hammer!”

There was no recurrence of the physical agony; and after
two days the feeling of prostration passed away, and
only the memory of the attack remained.

The idea of lionizing her children's governess, and introducing
her to soi-disant “fashionable society,” had taken
possession of Mrs. Andrews's mind, and she was quite as
much delighted with her patronizing scheme as a child
would have been with a new hobby-horse. Dreams at
which even Mæcenas might have laughed floated through
her busy brain, and filled her kind heart with generous anticipations.
On Thursday she informed Edna that she desired
her presence at dinner, and urged her request with
such pertinacious earnestness that no alternative remained

but acquiescence, and reluctantly the governess prepared to
meet a formidable party of strangers.

When Mrs. Andrews presented Sir Roger Percival, he
bowed rather haughtily, and with a distant politeness,
which assured Edna that he was cognizant of her refusal
to make his acquaintance at the opera.

During the early part of dinner he divided his gay
words between his hostess and a pretty Miss Morton, who
was evidently laying siege to his heart, and carefully flattering
his vanity; but whenever Edna, his vis-à-vis, looked
toward him, she invariably found his fine brown eyes scrutinizing
her face.

Mr. Manning, who sat next to Edna, engaged her in an
animated discussion concerning the value of a small volume
containing two essays by Buckle, which he had sent her a
few days previous.

Something which she said to the editor with reference to
Buckle's extravagant estimate of Mill, brought a smile to
the Englishman's lip, and, bowing slightly, he said:

“Pardon me, Miss Earl, if I interrupt you a moment to
express my surprise at hearing Mill denounced by an American.
His books on Representative Government and Liberty
are so essentially democratic that I expected only
gratitude and eulogy from his readers on this side of the
Atlantic.”

Despite her efforts to control it, embarrassment unstrung
her nerves, and threw a quiver into her voice, as she answered:

“I do not presume, sir, to `denounce' a man whom
Buckle ranks above all other living writers and statesmen;
but, in anticipating the inevitable result of the adoption of
some of Mill's proposed social reforms, I could not avoid
recalling that wise dictum of Frederick the Great concerning
philosophers—a saying which Buckle quotes so triumphantly
against Plato, Aristotle, Descartes—even Bacon,
Newton, and a long list of names illustrious in the annals

of English literature. Frederick declared: `If I wanted to
ruin one of my provinces, I would make over its government
to the philosophers.' With due deference to Buckle's superior
learning and astuteness, I confess my study of Mill's
philosophy assures me that, if society should be turned over
to the government of his theory of Liberty and Suffrage, it
would go to ruin more rapidly than Frederick's province.
Under his teachings the women of England might soon marshal
their amazonian legions, and storm not only Parnassus
but the ballot-box, the bench, and the forum. That this
should occur in a country where a woman nominally rules,
and certainly reigns, is not so surprising, but I dread the
contagion of such an example upon America.”

“His influence is powerful, from the fact that he never
takes up his pen without using it to break some social
shackles; and its strokes are tremendous as those of the
hammer of Thor. But surely, Miss Earl, you Americans
can not with either good taste, grace, or consistency, upbraid
England on the score of woman's rights' movements?”

“At least, sir, our statesmen are not yet attacked by this
most loathsome of political leprosies. Only a few crazy
fanatics have fallen victims to it, and if lunatic asylums
were not frequently cheated of their dues, these would not
be left at large, but shut up together in high-walled inclosures,
where, like Sydney Smith's `graminivorous metaphysicians,'
or Reaumur's spiders, they could only injure one
another and destroy their own webs. America has no Bentham,
Bailey, Hare or Mill, to lend countenance or strength
to the ridiculous clamor raised by a few unamiable and
wretched wives, and as many embittered, disappointed, old
maids of New England; whose absurd pretensions and disgraceful
conduct can not fail to bring a blush of shame and
smile of pity to the face of every truly refined American
woman. The noble apology which Edmund Burke once offered
for his countrymen, always recurs to my mind when I
hear these `women's conventions' alluded to: `Because

half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring
with their importunate chink, while thousands of great cattle
repose beneath the shade of the British oak, chew the cud,
and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the
noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that, of course,
they are many in number, or that, after all, they are other
than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and
troublesome insects of the hour.' I think, sir, that the noble
and true women of this continent earnestly believe that the
day which invests them with the elective franchise would be
the blackest in the annals of humanity, would ring the death-knell
of modern civilization, of national prosperity, social
morality, and domestic happiness! and would consign the
race to a night of degradation and horror infinitely more appalling
than a return to primeval barbarism. Then every
exciting political canvass would witness the revolting deeds
of the furies who assisted in storming the Tuileries; and repetitions
of scenes enacted during the French Revolution,
which mournfully attest how terrible indeed are female
natures when once perverted. God, the Maker, tenderly
anchored womanhood in the peaceful, blessed haven of home;
and if man is ever insane enough to mar the divine economy,
by setting women afloat on the turbulent, roaring sea of politics,
they will speedily become pitiable wrecks. Sooner than
such an inversion of social order, I would welcome even
Turkish bondage; for surely utter ignorance is infinitely preferable
to erudite unwomanliness.”

“Even my brief sojourn in America has taught me the
demoralizing tendency of the doctrine of `equality of races
and of sexes;' and you must admit, Miss Earl, that your
countrywomen are growing dangerously learned,” answered
Sir Roger, smiling.

“I am afraid, sir, that it is rather the quality than the
quantity of their learning that makes them troublesome.
One of your own noble seers has most gracefully declared:
`a woman may always help her husband,' (or race,) `by

what she knows, however little; by what she half knows
or misknows, she will only tease him.' I never hear that
much abused word `equality' without a shudder; and visions
of Cordeliers and Versailles furies. I have no aristocratic
prejudices, for my grandfather was a blacksmith, and
my father a carpenter; but I do not believe that `all men
are born free and equal;' and think that two thirds of the
Athenians were only fit to tie Socrates' shoes, and not one
half of Rome worthy to play valet and clasp the toga of
Cato or of Cicero. Neither do I claim nor admit the
equality of the sexes, whom God created with distinctive
intellectual characteristics, which never can be merged or
destroyed without outraging the decrees of nature, and
sapping the foundations of all domestic harmony. Allow
me to say, sir, in answer to your remark concerning learned
women, that it seems to me great misapprehension exists
relative to the question of raising the curriculum of female
education. Erudition and effrontery have no inherent connection,
and a woman has an unquestionable right to improve
her mind, ad infinitum, provided she does not barter
womanly delicacy and refinement for mere knowledge; and,
in her anxiety to parade what she has gleaned, forget the
decorum and modesty, without which she is monstrous and
repulsive. Does it not appear reasonable that a truly refined
woman, whose heart is properly governed, should increase
her usefulness to her family and her race, by increasing
her knowledge? A female pedant who is coarse and
boisterous, or ambitious of going to Congress, or making
stump-speeches, would be quite as unwomanly and unlovely
in character if she were utterly illiterate. I am afraid it is
not their superior learning or ability which afflicts the nineteenth
century with those unfortunate abnormal developments,
familiarly known as `strong-minded women;' but
that it is the misdirection of their energies, the one-sided
nature of their education. A woman who can not be contented
and happy in the bosom of her home, busied with ordinary
womanly work, but fancies it is her mission to practise
law or medicine, or go out lecturing, would be a troublesome,
disagreeable personage under all circumstances;
and would probably stir up quite as much mischief, while
using ungrammatical language, as if she were a perfect philologist.
Whom did Socrates find most amiable and feminine,
learned Diotima, or unlearned Xantippe? I think even
mankind would consent to see women as erudite as Damo,
or Isotta Nogarola, provided they were also as exemplary
in their domestic relations, as irreproachable and devoted
wives and daughters as Eponina and Chelonis, Alcestis and
Berengaria.”

Sir Roger bowed assent, and Mr. Manning said:

“Very `true, good, and beautiful,' as a mere theory in sociology,
but in an age when those hideous hermaphrodites,
ycleped `strong-minded women,' are becoming so alarmingly
numerous, our eyes are rarely gladdened by a conjunction
of highly cultivated intellects, noble, loving hearts, tender,
womanly sensibilities. Can you shoulder the onus probandi?”

“Sir, that rests with those who assert that learning renders
women disagreeable and unfeminine; the burden of
proof remains for you.”

“Permit me to lift the weight for you, Manning, by asking
Miss Earl what she thinks of the comparative merits of
the `Princess,' and of `Aurora Leigh,' as correctives of the
tendency she deprecates?”

Hitherto the discussion had been confined to the trio,
while the conversation was general, but now silence reigned
around the table, and when the Englishman's question
forced Edna to look up, she saw all eyes turned upon her;
and embarrassment flushed her face, and her lashes drooped
as she answered:

“It has often been asserted by those who claim proficiency
in the anatomy of character, that women are the
most infallible judges of womanly, and men of manly natures;

but I am afraid that the poems referred to would
veto this decision. While I yield to no human being in admiration
of, and loving gratitude to Mrs. Browning, and
regard the first eight books of `Aurora Leigh' as vigorous,
grand, and marvellously beautiful, I can not deny that a
painful feeling of mortification seizes me when I read the
ninth and concluding book, wherein `Aurora,' with most
unwomanly vehemence, voluntarily declares and reiterates
her love for `Romney.' Tennyson's `Princess' seems to me
more feminine and refined and lovely than `Aurora;' and
it is because I love and revere Mrs. Browning, and consider
her not only the pride of her own sex, but an ornament to
the world, that I find it difficult to forgive the unwomanly
inconsistency into which she betrays her heroine. Allow
me to say that in my humble opinion nothing in the whole
range of literature so fully portrays a perfect woman as that
noble sketch by Wordsworth, and the inimitable description
in Rogers's `Human Life.'”

“The first is, I presume, familiar to all of us, but the last,
I confess, escapes my memory. Will you be good enough
to repeat it?” said the editor, knitting his brows slightly.

“Excuse me, sir; it is too long to be quoted here, and it
seems that I have already monopolized the conversation
much longer than I expected or desired. Moreover, to
quote Rogers to an Englishman would be equivalent to
`carrying coal to Newcastle,' or peddling `owls in Athens.'”

Sir Roger smiled as he said:

“Indeed, Miss Earl, while you spoke, I was earnestly ransacking
my memory for the passage to which you allude;
but, I am ashamed to say, it is as fruitless an effort as `calling
spirits from the vasty deep.' Pray be so kind as to repeat
it for me.”

At that instant little Hattie crept softly to the back of
Edna's chair and whispered:

“Bro' Felix says, won't you please come back soon, and
finish that story where you left off reading last night?”

Very glad to possess so good an excuse, the governess
rose at once; but Mrs. Andrews said:

“Wait, Miss Earl. What do you want, Hattie?”

“Bro' Felix wants Miss Earl, and sent me to beg her to
come.”

“Go back and tell him he is in a hopeless minority, and
that in this country the majority rule. There are fifteen
here who want to talk to Miss Earl, and he can't have her
in the school-room just now,” said Grey Chilton, slyly pelting
his niece with almonds.

“But Felix is really sick to-day, and if Mrs. Andrews
will excuse me, I prefer to go.”

She looked imploringly at the lady of the house, who
said nothing; and Sir Roger beckoned Hattie to him, and
exclaimed:

“Pray, may I inquire, Mrs. Andrews, why your children
do not make their appearance? I am sure you need not
fear a repetition of the sarcastic rebuke of that wit who,
when dining at a house where the children were noisy and
unruly, lifted his glass, bowed to the troublesome little
ones, and drank to the memory of King Herod. I am very
certain `the murder of the innocents' would never be recalled
here, unless—forgive me, Miss Earl! but from the
sparkle in your eyes, I believe you anticipate me. Do you
really know what I am about to say?”

“I think, sir, I can guess.”

“Let me see whether you are a clairvoyant!”

“On one occasion when a sign for a children's school was
needed, and the lady teacher applied to Lamb to suggest a
design, he meekly advised that of `The Murder of the Innocents.'
Thank you, sir. However, I am not surprised that
you entertain such flattering opinions of a profession which
in England boasts `Squeers' as its national type and representative.”

The young man laughed good-humoredly, and answered:

“For the honor of my worthy pedagogical countrymen,

permit me to assure you that the aforesaid `Squeers' is sim
ply one of Dickens's inimitable caricatures.”

“Nevertheless I have somewhere seen the statement that
when `Nicholas Nickleby' first made its appearance, only
six irate schoolmasters went immediately to London, to
thrash the author; each believing that he recognized his
own features in the amiable portrait of `Squeers.'”

She bowed and turned from the table, but Mrs. Andrews
exclaimed:

“Before you go, repeat that passage from Rogers; then
we will excuse you.”

With one hand clasping Hattie's, and the other resting
on the back of her chair, Edna fixed her eyes on Mrs. Andrews's
face, and gave the quotation.