University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

FLOWERY as Sicilian meads was the parsonage
garden on that quiet afternoon, late in May,
when Mr. Hammond closed the honeysuckle-crowned
gate, crossed the street, and walked
slowly into the churchyard, down the sacred streets of the
silent city of the dead, and entered the inclosure where
slept his white-robed household band.

The air was thick with perfume, as if some strong, daring
south wind had blown wide the mystic doors of Astarte's
huge laboratory, and overturned the myriad alembics, and
deluged the world with her fragrant and subtle distillations.

Honey-burdened bees hummed their hymns to labor, as
they swung to and fro; and numbers of Psyche-symbols,
golden butterflies, floated dreamily in and around and over
the tombs, now and then poising on velvet wings, as if
waiting, listening for the clarion voice of Gabriel, to rouse
and reänimate the slumbering bodies beneath the gleaming
slabs. Canary-colored orioles flitted in and out of the trailing
willows, a red-bird perched on the brow of a sculptured
angel guarding a child's grave, and poured his sad, sweet,
monotonous notes on the spicy air; two purple pigeons,
with rainbow necklaces, cooed and fluttered up and down
from the church belfry, and, close under the projecting roof
of the granite vault, a pair of meek brown wrens were building
their nest and twittering softly one to another.

The pastor cut down the rank grass and fringy ferns, the
flaunting weeds and coreopsis that threatened to choke his

more delicate flowers, and, stooping, tied up the crimson
pinks, and wound the tendrils of the blue-veined clematis
around its slender trellis, and straightened the white petunias
and the orange-tinted crocaes, which the last heavy
shower had beaten to the ground.

The small, gray vault was overrun with ivy, whose dark
polished leaves threatened to encroach on a plain slab of
pure marble that stood very near it; and as the minister
pruned away the wreaths, his eyes rested on the black letters
in the centre of the slab: “Murray Hammond. Aged
21.”

Elsewhere the sunshine streamed warm and bright over
the graves, but here the rays were intercepted by the
church, and its cool shadow rested over vault and slab and
flowers.

The old man was weary from stooping so long, and now
he took off his hat and passed his hand over his forehead,
and sighed as he leaned against the door of the vault,
where fine fairy-fingered mosses were weaving their green
arabesque immortelles.

In a mournfully measured, yet tranquil tone, he said aloud:

“Ah! truly, throughout all the years of my life I have
`never heard the promise of perfect love, without seeing
aloft amongst the stars, fingers as of a man's hand, writing
the secret legend: Ashes to ashes! dust to dust!'”

Age was bending his body toward the earth with which
it was soon to mingle; the ripe and perfect wheat nodded
lower and lower day by day, as the Angel of the Sickle delayed;
but his noble face wore that blessed and marvellous
calm, that unearthly peace which generally comes some
hours after death, when all traces of temporal passions and
woes are lost in eternity's repose.

A low wailing symphony throbbed through the church,
where the organist was practising; and then out of the windows,
and far away on the evening air, rolled the solemn
waves of that matchlessly mournful Requiem which, under

prophetic shadows, Mozart began on earth and finished perhaps,
in heaven, on one of those golden harps whose apocalyptic
ringing smote St. John's eager ears among the lonely
rocks of Ægean-girdled Patmos. The sun had paused as if
to listen, on the wooded crest of a distant hill, but as the
requiem ended and the organ sobbed itself to rest, he gathered
up his burning rays and disappeared; and the spotted
butterflies, like “winged tulips,” flitted silently away, and
the evening breeze bowed the large yellow primroses, and
fluttered the phlox; and the red nasturtiums that climbed
up at the foot of the slab shuddered, and shook their blood-colored
banners over the polished marble. A holy hush fell
upon all things save a towering poplar that leaned against
the church, and rustled its leaves ceaselessly, and shivered
and turned white, as tradition avers it has done since that
day, when Christ staggered along the Via Dolorosa bearing
his cross, carved out of poplar wood.

Leaning with his hands folded on the handle of the weeding-hoe,
his gray beard sweeping over his bosom, his bare,
silvered head bowed, and his mild, peaceful blue eyes resting
on his son's tomb, Mr. Hammond stood listening to the
music; and when the strains ceased, his thoughts travelled
onward and upward till they crossed the sea of crystal before
the Throne, and in imagination he heard the song of
the four and twenty elders.

From this brief reverie some slight sound aroused him,
and lifting his eyes, he saw a man clad in white linen garments,
wearing oxalis clusters in his coat, standing on the
opposite side of the monumental slab.

“St. Elmo! my poor, suffering wanderer! O St. Elmo!
come to me once more before I die!”

The old man's voice was thick with sobs, and his arms
trembled as he stretched them across the grave that intervened.

Mr. Murray looked into the tender, tearful, pleading countenance,
and the anguish that seized his own, making his

features writhe, beggars language. He instinctively put
out his arms, then drew them back, and hid his face in his
hands; saying, in low, broken, almost inaudible tones:

“I am too unworthy. Dripping with the blood of your
children, I dare not touch you.”

The pastor tottered around the tomb, and stood at Mr.
Murray's side, and the next moment the old man's arms
were clasped around the tall form, and his white hair fell
on his pupil's shoulder.

“God be praised! After twenty years' separation I hold
you once more to the heart that, even in its hours of deepest
sorrow, has never ceased to love you! St. Elmo!—”

He wept aloud, and strained the prodigal convulsively to
his breast.

After a moment Mr. Murray's lips moved, twitched; tears
dripped over his swarthy face, and with a sob that shook
his powerful frame from head to foot, he asked:

“Will you ever, ever forgive me?”

“God is my witness that I freely and fully forgave you
many, many years ago! The dearest hope of my lonely
life has been that I might tell you so, and make you realize
how ceaselessly my prayers and my love have followed you
in all your dreary wanderings. Oh! I thank God that, at
last! at last you have come to me, my dear, dear boy! My
poor, proud prodigal!”

A magnificent jubilate swelled triumphantly through
church and churchyard, as if the organist up in the gallery
knew what was transpiring at Murray Hammond's grave;
and when the thrilling music died away, St. Elmo broke
from the encircling arms, and knelt with his face shrouded
in his hands and pressed against the marble that covered
his victim.

After a little while the pastor sat down on the edge of
the slab, and laid his shrunken fingers softly and caressingly
upon the bowed head.

“Do not dwell upon a past that is fraught only with bitterness

to you, and from which you can draw no balm.
Throw your painful memories behind you, and turn resolutely
to a future which may be rendered noble and useful
and holy. There is truth, precious truth in George Herbert's
words:
and the years to come may, by the grace of God, more than
cancel those that have gone by.”

“What have I to hope for—in time or eternity? Oh!
none but Almighty God can ever know the dreary blackness
and wretchedness of my despairing soul! the keen, sleepless
agony of my remorse! my utter loathing of my accursed,
distorted nature!”

“And his pitying eyes see all, and Christ stretches out
his hands to lift you up to himself, and his own words of
loving sympathy and pardon are spoken again to you:
`Come unto me, all ye weary and heavy-laden, and I will
give you rest.' Throw all your galling load of memories
down at the foot of the cross, and `the peace that passeth
all understanding' shall enter your sorrowing soul, and
abide there for ever. St. Elmo, only prayer could have sustained
and soothed me since we parted that bright summer
morning twenty long, long years ago. Prayer took away
the sting and sanctified my sorrows for the good of my soul;
and, my dear, dear boy, it will extract the poison and the bitterness
from yours. That God answers prayer and comforts
the afflicted among men, I am a living attestation. It is
by his grace only that `I am what I am;' erring and unworthy
I humbly own, but patient at least, and fully resigned
to his will. The only remaining cause of disquiet
passed away just now, when I saw that you had come back
to me. St. Elmo, do you ever pray for yourself?”

“For some weeks I have been trying to pray, but my
words seem a mockery; they do not rise, they fall back hissing
upon my heart. I have injured and insulted you; I

have cursed you and yours, have robbed you of your peace
of mind, have murdered your children—”

“Hush! hush! we will not disinter the dead. My peace
of mind you have to-day given back to me; and the hope
of your salvation is dearer to me than the remembered faces
of my darlings, sleeping here beside us. Oh St. Elmo! I
have prayed for you as I never prayed even for my own
Murray; and I know, I feel that all my wrestling before the
Throne of Grace has not been in vain. Sometimes my faith
grew faint, and as the years dragged on and I saw no melting
of your haughty, bitter spirit, I almost lost hope; but I
did not, thank God, I did not! I held on to the precious
promise, and prayed more fervently, and, blessed be His
holy name! at last, just before I go hence, the answer comes.
As I see you kneeling here at my Murray's grave, I know
now that your soul is snatched `as a brand from the burning!'
Oh! I bless my merciful God, that in that day when
we stand for final judgment, and your precious soul is required
at my son's hands, the joyful cry of the recording angel
shall be, Saved! saved! for ever and ever, through the blood
of the Lamb!”

Overwhelmed with emotion, the pastor dropped his white
head on his bosom, and wept unrestrainedly; and once more
silence fell over the darkening cemetery.

One by one the birds hushed their twitter and went to
rest, and only the soft cooing of the pigeons floated down
now and then from the lofty belfry.

On the eastern horizon a thin, fleecy scarf of clouds was
silvered by the rising moon, the west was a huge shrine of
beryl whereon burned ruby flakes of vapor, watched by a
solitary vestal star; and the sapphire arch overhead was
beautiful and mellow as any that ever vaulted above the
sculptured marbles of Pisan Campo Santo.

Mr. Murray rose and stood with his head uncovered, and
his eyes fixed on the nodding nasturtiums that glowed like
blood-spots.

“Mr. Hammond, your magnanimity unmans me; and if
your words be true, I feel in your presence like a leper;
and should lay my lips in the dust, crying, `Unclean! unclean!'
For all that I have inflicted on you, I have neither
apology nor defence to offer; and I could much better have
borne curses from you than words of sympathy and affection.
You amaze me, for I hate and scorn myself so thoroughly,
that I marvel at the interest you still indulge for
me; I can not understand how you can endure the sight of
my features, the sound of my voice. Oh! if I could atone!
If I could give Annie back to your arms, there is no suffering,
no torture that I would not gladly embrace! No penance
of body or soul from which I would shrink!”

“My dear boy, (for such you still seem to me, notwithstanding
the lapse of time,) let my little darling rest with
her God. She went down early to her long home, and
though I missed her sweet laugh, and her soft, tender hands
about my face, and have felt a chill silence in my house,
where music once was, she has been spared much suffering
and many trials; and I would not recall her if I could, for
after a few more days I shall gather her back to my bosom
in that eternal land where the blighting dew of death never
falls; where

Atone? Ah St. Elmo! you can atone. Save your soul, redeem
your life, and I shall die blessing your name. Look
at me in my loneliness and infirmity. I am childless; you
took my idols from me, long, long, ago; you left my heart
desolate; and now I have a right to turn to you, to stretch
out my feeble, empty arms, and say, Come, be my child,
fill my son's place, let me lean upon you in my old age, as
I once fondly dreamed I should lean on my own Murray!
St. Elmo, will you come? Will you give me your heart,
my son! my son!”

He put out his trembling hands, and a yearning tenderness

shone in his eyes as he raised them to the tall, stern
man before him.

Mr. Murray bent eagerly forward, and looked wonderingly
at him.

“Do you, can you mean it? It appears so impossible,
and I have been so long sceptical of all nobility in my race.
Will you indeed shelter Murray's murderer in your generous,
loving heart?”

“I call my God to witness, that it has been my dearest
hope for dreary years that I might win your heart back
before I died.”

“It is but a wreck, a hideous ruin, black with sins; but
such as I am, my future, my all, I lay at your feet! If
there is any efficacy in bitter repentance and remorse; if
there is any mercy left in my Maker's hands; if there be
saving power in human will, I will atone! I will atone!”

The strong man trembled like a wave-lashed reed, as he
sank on one knee at the minister's feet, and buried his face
in his arms; and spreading his palms over the drooped
head, Mr. Hammond gently and solemnly blessed him.

For some time both were silent, and then Mr. Murray
stretched out one arm over the slab, and said brokenly:

“Kneeling here at Murray's tomb, a strange, incomprehensible
feeling creeps into my heart. The fierce, burning
hate I have borne him seems to have passed away; and
something, ah! something, mournfully like the old yearning
toward him, comes back, as I look at his name. O
idol of my youth! hurled down and crushed by my own
savage hands! For the first time since I destroyed him,
since I saw his handsome face whitening in death, I think
of him kindly. For the first time since that night, I feel
that—that—I can forgive him. Murray! Murray! you wronged
me! you wrecked me! but oh! if I could give you back
the life I took in my madness! how joyfully would I forgive
you all my injuries! His blood dyes my hands, my
heart, my soul!”

“The blood of Jesus will wash out those stains. The
law was fully satisfied when he hung on Calvary; there,
ample atonement was made for just such sins as yours, and
you have only to claim and plead his sufferings to secure
your salvation. St. Elmo, bury your past here, in Murray's
grave, and give all your thoughts to the future. Half of
your life has ebbed out, and yet your life-work remains undone,
untouched. You have no time to spend in looking
over your unimproved years.”

“`Bury my past!' Impossible, even for one hour. I tell
you I am chained to it, as the Aloides were chained to the
pillars of Tartarus! and the croaking fiend that will not
let me sleep is memory! Memory of sins that—that avenge
your wrongs, old man! that goad me sometimes to the
very verge of suicide! Do you know, ha! how could you
possibly know? Shall I tell you that only one thought has
often stood between me and self-destruction? It was not
the fear of death, no, no, no! It was not even the dread
of facing an outraged God! but it was the horrible fear of
meeting Murray! Not all eternity was wide enough to
hold us both! The hate I bore him made me shrink from
a deed which I felt would instantly set us face to face once
more in the land of souls. Ah! a change has come over
me; now, if I could see his face, I might learn to forget
that look it wore when last I gazed upon it. Time bears
healing for some natures; to mine it has brought only poison.
It is useless to bid me forget. Memory is earth's retribution
for man's sins. I have bought at a terrible price
my conviction of the melancholy truth, that he who touches
the weapons of Nemesis effectually slaughters his own
peace of mind, and challenges her maledictions, from which
there is no escape. In my insanity I said, `Vengeance is
mine! I will repay!' and in the hour when I daringly grasped
the prerogative of God, His curse smote me! Mr. Hammond,
friend of my happy youth, guide of my innocent boyhood!
if you could know all the depths of my abasement,

you would pity me indeed! My miserable heart is like the
crater of some extinct volcano; the flames of sin have burned
out, and left it rugged, rent, blackened. I do not think
that—”

“St. Elmo, do not upbraid yourself so bitterly—

“Sir, your words are kind and noble and full of Christian
charity; they are well meant, and I thank you; but they
can not comfort me. My desolation, my utter wretchedness
isolate me from the sympathy of my race, whom I have despised
and trampled so relentlessly. Yesterday I read a
passage which depicts so accurately my dreary isolation,
that I have been unable to expel it; I find it creeping even
now to my lips:

“Yes, my dear St. Elmo, so surely as God reigns above
us, he will refashion it, and make the light of his pardoning
love and the refreshing dew of his grace fall upon it!
And the waste places shall bloom as Sharon, and the purpling
vineyards shame Engedi, and the lilies of peace shall
lift up their stately heads, and the `voice of the turtle shall
be heard in the land!' Have faith, grapple yourself by
prayer to the feet of God, and he will gird, and lift up, and
guide you.”

Mr. Murray shook his head mournfully, and the moon-light
shining on his face showed it colorless, haggard, hopeless.

The pastor rose, put on his hat, and took St. Elmo's arm.

“Come home with me. This spot is fraught with painful
associations that open afresh all your wounds.”

They walked on together until they reached the parsonage
gate, and as the minister raised the latch, his companion
gently disengaged the arm clasped to the old man's side

“Not to-night. After a few days I will try to come.”

“St. Elmo, to-morrow is Sunday, and—”

He paused, and did not speak the request that looked out
from his eyes.

It cost Mr. Murray a severe struggle, and he did not answer
immediately. When he spoke his voice was unsteady.

“Yes, I know what you wish. Once I swore I would
tear the church down, scatter its dust to the winds, leave
not a stone to mark the site! But I will come and hear
you preach for the first time since that sunny Sabbath,
twenty years dead, when your text was, `Cast thy bread
upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days.”
Sodden, and bitter, and worthless, from long tossing in the
great deep of sin, it drifts back at last to your feet; and
instead of stooping tenderly to gather up the useless fragments,
I wonder that you do not spurn the stranded ruin
from you. Yes, I will come.”

“Thank God! Oh! what a weight you have lifted from
my heart! St. Elmo, my son!”

There was a long, lingering clasp of hands, and the pastor
went into his home with tears of joy on his furrowed
face, while his smiling lips whispered to his grateful soul:

“In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold
not thy hand; for thou knowest not whether shall prosper,
either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike
good.”

Mr. Murray watched the stooping form until it disappeared,
and then went slowly back to the silent burying-ground,
and sat down on the steps of the church.

Hour after hour passed and still he sat there, almost as

motionless as one of the monuments, while his eyes dwelt,
as if spellbound, on the dark dull stain where Annie Hammond
had rested, in days long, long past; and Remorse,
more potent than Erictho, evoked from the charnel house
the sweet girlish features and fairy figure of the early dead.

His pale face was propped on his hand, and there in the
silent watches of the moon-lighted midnight, he held communion
with God and his own darkened spirit.

His almost Satanic pride was laid low as the dead in their
mouldering shrouds, and all the giant strength of his perverted
nature was gathered up and hurled in a new direction.
The Dead Sea Past moaned and swelled, and bitter
waves surged and broke over his heart, but he silently buffeted
them; and the moon rode in mid-heaven when he rose,
went around the church, and knelt and prayed, with his
forehead pressed to the marble that covered Murray Hammond's
last resting place.