University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

OH! how grand and beautiful it is! Whenever I
look at it, I feel exactly as I did on Easter-Sunday,
when I went to the cathedral to hear the
music. It is a solemn feeling, as if I were in a
holy place. Miss Earl, what makes me feel so?”

Felix stood in an art-gallery, and leaning on his crutches
looked up at Church's “Heart of the Andes.”

“You are impressed by the solemnity and the holy repose
of nature; for here you look upon a pictured cathedral,
built not by mortal hands, but by the architect of the
universe. Felix, does it not recall to your mind something
of which we often speak?”

The boy was silent for a few seconds, and then his thin,
sallow face brightened.

“Yes, indeed! You mean that splendid description
which you read to me from `Modern Painters'? How fond
you are of that passage, and how very often you think of it!
Let me see whether I can remember it:

Slowly yet accurately he repeated the eloquent tribute to
“Mountain Glory,” from the fourth volume of “Modern
Painters.”

“Felix, you know that a celebrated English poet, Keats,
has said, `A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;' and as I can
never hope to express my ideas in half such beautiful language
as Mr. Ruskin uses, it is an economy of trouble to
quote his words. Some of his expressions are like certain
songs which, the more frequently we sing them, the more

valuable and eloquent they become; and as we rarely learn
a fine piece of music to be played once or twice and then
thrown aside, why should we not be allowed the same privilege
with verbal melodies? Last week you asked me to
explain to you what is meant by `aerial perspective,' and
if you will study the atmosphere in this great picture, Mr.
Church will explain it much more clearly to you than I was
able to do.”

“Yes, Miss Earl, I see it now. The eye could travel up
and up, and on and on, and never get out of that sky; and
it seems to me those birds yonder would fly entirely away,
out of sight, through that air in the picture. But, Miss
Earl, do you really believe that the Chimborazo in South-America
is as grand as Mr. Church's? I do not, because
I have noticed that pictures are much handsomer than the
real things they stand for. Mamma carried me last spring
to see some paintings of scenes on the Hudson river, and
when we went travelling in the summer I saw the very
spot where the artist stood, when he sketched the hills and
the bend of the river, and it was not half so pretty as the
picture. And yet I know God is the greatest painter. Is
it the far-off look that every thing wears when painted?”

“Yes, the `far-off look,' as you call it, is one cause of the
effect you wish to understand; and it has been rather more
elegantly expressed by Campbell, in the line:

I have seen this fact exemplified in a very singular manner,
at a house in Georgia, where I was once visiting.
From the front-door I had a very fine prospect or view of
lofty hills, and a dense forest, and a pretty little town where
the steeples of the churches glittered in the sunshine, and
I stood for some time admiring the landscape; but presently,
when I turned to speak to the lady of the house, I saw,
in the glass side-lights of the door, a miniature reflection
of the very same scene that was much more beautiful. I
was puzzled, and could not comprehend how the mere
fact of diminishing the size of the various objects, by increasing
the distance, could enhance their loveliness; and
I asked myself whether all far-off things were handsomer
than those close at hand? In my perplexity I went as
usual to Mr. Ruskin, wondering whether he had ever noticed
the same thing; and of course he had, and has a noble
passage about it in one of his books on architecture. I
will see if my memory appreciates it as it deserves: `Are
not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as
far away? Nay, not so. Look at the clouds, and watch
the delicate sculpture of their alabaster sides and the rounded
lustre of their magnificent rolling. They are meant
to be beheld far away; they were shaped for their place,
high above your head; approach them, and they fuse into
vague mists, or whirl away in fierce fragments of thunderous
vapor.' (And here, Felix, your question about
Chimborazo is answered.) `Look at the crest of the Alps,
from the far-away plains over which its light is cast, whence
human souls have communion with it by their myriads.
The child looks up to it in the dawn, and the husbandman
in the burden and heat of the day, and the old man in the
going down of the sun, and it is to them all as the celestial
city on the world's horizon; dyed with the depth of heaven
and clothed with the calm of eternity. There was it set
for holy dominion by Him who marked for the sun his
journey, and bade the moon know her going down. It
was built for its place in the far-off sky; approach it, and
the glory of its aspect fades into blanched fearfulness; its
purple walls are rent into grisly rocks, its silver fretwork
saddened into wasting snow; the storm-brands of ages are
on its breast, the ashes of its own ruin lie solemnly on its
white raiment!' Felix, in rambling about the fields, you
will frequently be reminded of this. I have noticed that
the meadow in the distance is always greener and more velvety,
and seems more thickly studded with flowers, than
the one I am crossing; or the hill-side far away has a golden
gleam on its rocky slopes, and the shadow spots are
softer and cooler and more purple than those I am climbing
and panting over; and I have hurried on, and after a little,
turning to look back, lo! all the glory I saw beckoning me
on has flown, and settled over the meadow and the hill-side
that I have passed, and the halo is behind! Perfect
beauty in scenery is like the mirage that you read about
yesterday; it fades and flits out of your grasp, as you travel
toward it. When we go home I will read you something
which Emerson has said concerning this same lovely ignis
fatuus; for I can remember only a few words: `What
splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness
in the sunset! But who can go where they are, or
lay his hand, or plant his foot thereon? Off they fall from
the round world for ever and ever.' Felix, I suppose it is
because we see all the imperfections and inequalities of objects
close at hand, but the fairy film of air like a silvery
mist hides these when at a distance; and we are charmed
with the heightened beauties, which alone are visible.”

Edna's eyes went back to the painting, and rested there;
and little Hattie, who had been gazing up at her governess
in curious perplexity, pulled her brother's sleeve and said:

“Bro' Felix, do you understand all that? I guess I
don't; for I know when I am hungry, (and seems to me I
always am;) why, when I am hungry the closer I get to
my dinner the nicer it looks! And then there was that
hateful, spiteful old Miss Abby Tompkins, that mamma
would have to teach you! Ugh! I have watched her many
a time coming up the street, (you know she never would
ride in stages for fear of pickpockets,) and she always looked
just as ugly as far off as I could see her as when she
came close to me—”

A hearty laugh cut short Hattie's observations; and,
coming forward, Sir Roger Percival put his hand on her
head, saying:

“How often children tumble down `the step from the
sublime to the ridiculous,' and drag staid, dignified folks
after them? Miss Earl, I have been watching your little
party for some time, listening to your incipient art-lecture.
You Americans are queer people; and when I go home I
shall tell Mr. Ruskin that I heard a little boy criticising
`The Heart of the Andes,' and quoting from `Modern
Painters.' Felix, as I wish to be accurate, will you tell me
your age?”

The poor sensitive cripple imagined that he was being
ridiculed, and he only reddened and frowned and bit his
thin lips.

Edna laid her hand on his shoulder, and answered for
him.

“Just thirteen years old; and though Mr. Ruskin is a
distinguished exception to the rule that `prophets are not
without honor, save in their own country,' I think he has
no reader who loves and admires his writings more than
Felix Andrews.”

Here the boy raised his eyes and asked:

“Why is it that prophets have no honor among their
own people? Is it because they too have to be seen from
a great distance in order to seem grand? I heard mamma
say the other day that if some book written in America had
only come from England every body would be raving about
it.”

“Some other time, Felix, we will talk of that problem.
Hattie, you look sleepy.”

“I think it will be lunch-time before we get home,” replied
the yawning child.

Sir Roger took her by her shoulders, and shook her
gently, saying:

“Come, wake up, little sweetheart! How can you get
sleepy or hungry with all these handsome pictures staring
at you from the walls?”

The good-natured child laughed; but her brother, who

had an unconquerable aversion to Sir Roger's huge whiskers,
curled his lips, and exclaimed scornfully:

“Hattie, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Hungry,
indeed! You are almost as bad as that English Lady —,
who, when her husband was admiring some beautiful
lambs, and called her attention to them, answered, `Yes,
lambs are beautiful—boiled!'”

Desirous of conciliating him, Sir Roger replied:

“When you and Hattie come to see me in England, I
will show you the most beautiful lambs in the United
Kingdom; and your sister shall have boiled lamb three
times a day, if she wishes it. Miss Earl, you are so fond
of paintings that you would enjoy a European tour more
than any lady whom I have met in this country. I have
seen miles of canvas in Boston, New-York, and Philadelphia,
but very few good pictures.”

“And yet, sir, when on exhibition in Europe this great
work here before us recerved most extravagant praise from
trans Atlantic critics, who are very loath to accord merit to
American artists. If I am ever so fortunate as to be able
to visit Europe, and cultivate and improve my taste, I think
I shall still be very proud of the names of Allston, West,
Church, Bierstadt, Kensett, and Gifford.”

She turned to quit the gallery, and Sir Roger said:

“I leave to-morrow for Canada, and may possibly sail for
England without returning to New-York. Will you allow
me the pleasure of driving you to the Park this afternoon?
Two months ago you refused a similar request, but since
then I flatter myself we have become better friends.”

“Thank you, Sir Roger. I presume the children can
spare me, and I will go with pleasure.”

“I will call at five o'clock.”

He handed her and Hattie into the coupé, tenderly assisted
Felix, and saw them driven away.

Presently Felix laughed, and exclaimed:

“Oh! I hope Miss Morton will be in the Park this evening.

It would be glorious fun to see her meet you and Sir
Roger.”

“Why, Felix?”

“Oh! because she meddles. I heard Uncle Grey tell
mamma that she was making desperate efforts to catch the
Englishman; and that she turned up her nose tremendously
at the idea of his visiting you. When Uncle Grey told her
how often he came to our house, she bit her lips almost till
the blood spouted. Sir Roger drives very fine horses,
uncle says, and Miss Morton hints outrageously for him to
ask her to ride, but she can't manage to get the invitation.
So she will be furious when she sees you this afternoon.
Yonder is Goupil's; let us stop and have a look at those
new engravings mamma told us about yesterday. Hattie,
you can curl up in your corner, and go to sleep and dream
of boiled lamb till we come back.”

Later in the day Mrs. Andrews went up to Edna's room,
and found her correcting an exercise.

“At work as usual. You are incorrigible. Any other
woman would be so charmed with her conquest that her
head would be quite turned by a certain pair of brown
eyes that are considered irresistible. Come, get ready for
your drive; it is almost five o'clock, and you know foreigners
are too polite, too thoroughly well-bred not to be punctual.
No, no, Miss Earl; not that hat, on the peril of your
life! Where is that new one that I ordered sent up to you
two days ago? It will match this delicate white shawl of
mine, which I brought up for you to wear; and come, no
scruples if you please! Stand up and let me see whether
its folds hang properly. You should have heard Madame
De G— when she put it around my shoulders for the
first time, `Juste ciel! Madame Andrews, you are a Greek
statue!' Miss Earl, put your hair back a little from the
left temple. There, now the veins show! Where are your
gloves? You look charmingly, my dear; only too pale,
too pale! If you don't contrive to get up some color, people

will swear that Sir Roger was airing the ghost of a pretty
girl. There is the bell! Just as I told you, he is punctual.
Five o'clock to a minute.”

She stepped to the window, and looked down at the
equipage before the door.

“What superb horses! You will be the envy of the
city.”

There was something in the appearance and manner of
Sir Roger which often reminded Edna of Gordon Leigh;
and during the spring he visited her so constantly, sent her
so frequently baskets of elegant flowers, that he succeeded
in overcoming her reticence, and established himself on an
exceedingly friendly footing in Mrs. Andrews's house.

Now, as they drove along the avenue and entered the
Park, their spirits rose; and Sir Roger turned very often
to look at the fair face of his companion, which he found
more and more attractive each day. He saw too that under
his earnest gaze the faint color deepend, until her cheeks
glowed like sea-shells; and when he spoke he bent his face
much nearer to hers than was necessary to make her hear
his words. They talked of books, flowers, music, mountain
scenery, and the green lanes of “Merry England.” Edna
was perfectly at ease, and in a mood to enjoy every thing.

They dashed on, and the sunlight disappeared, and the
gas glittered all over the city before Sir Roger turned his
horses' heads homeward. When they reached Mrs. Andrews's
door he dismissed his carriage and spent the evening.
At eleven o'clock he rose to say good-bye.

“Miss Earl, I hope I shall have the pleasure of renewing
our acquaintance at an early day; if not in America in
Europe. The brightest reminiscences I shall carry across
the ocean are those that cluster about the hours I have
spent with you. If I should not return to New-York, will
you allow me the privilege of hearing from you occasionally?”

His clasp of the girl's hand was close, but she withdrew
it, and her face flushed painfully as she answered:

“You will excuse me, Sir Roger, when I tell you that I
am so constantly occupied I have not time to write, even to
my old and dearest friends.”

Passing the door of Felix's room, on her way to her own
apartment, the boy called to her: “Miss Earl, are you very
tired?”

“Oh! no. Do you want any thing?”

“My head aches, and I can't go to sleep. Please read to
me a little while.”

He raised himself on his elbow, and looked up fondly at
her.

“Ah! how very pretty you are to-night! Kiss me, won't
you?”

She stooped and kissed the poor parched lips, and as she
opened a volume of the Waverley Novels, he said:

“Did you see Miss Morton?”

“Yes; she was on horseback, and we passed her twice.”

“Glad of it! She does not like you. I guess she finds
it as hard to get to sleep to-night as I do.”

Edna commenced reading, and it was nearly an hour before
Felix's eyes closed, and his fingers relaxed their grasp
of hers. Softly she put the book back on the shelf, extinguished
the light, and stole up-stairs to her desk. That
night, as Sir Roger tossed restlessly on his pillow, thinking
of her, recalling all that she had said during the drive, he
would not have been either comforted or flattered by a
knowledge of the fact that she was so entirely engrossed
by her MS. that she had no thought of him or his impending
departure.

When the clock struck three she laid down her pen; and
the mournful expression that crept into her eyes told that
memory was busy with the past years. When she fell
asleep she dreamed not of Sir Roger but of Le Bocage and
its master, of whom she would not permit herself to think
in her waking hours.

The influence which Mr. Manning exerted over Edna increased

as their acquaintance ripened; and the admiring
reverence with which she regarded the editor was exceedingly
flattering to him. With curious interest he watched
the expansion of her mind, and now and then warned her
of some error into which she seemed inclined to plunge, or
wisely advised some new branch of research.

So firm was her confidence in his mature and dispassion
ate judgment, that she yielded to his opinions a deferential
homage, such as she had scarcely paid even to Mr. Hammond.

Gradually and unconsciously she learned to lean upon his
strong, clear mind, and to find in his society a quiet but
very precious happiness. The antagonism of their characters
was doubtless one cause of the attraction which each
found in the other, and furnished the balance-wheel which
both required.

Edna's intense and dreamy idealism demanded a check,
which the positivism of the editor supplied; and his extensive
and rigidly accurate information, on almost all scientific
topics, constituted a valuable thesaurus of knowledge to
which he never denied her access.

His faith in Christianity was like his conviction of the
truth of mathematics, more an intellectual process and the
careful deduction of logic than the result of some emotional
impulse; his religion like his dialectics was cold, consistent,
irreproachable, unanswerable. Never seeking a controversy
on any subject he never shunned one, and, during its continuance,
his demeanor was invariably courteous but unyielding,
and even when severe he was rarely bitter.

Very early in life his intellectual seemed to have swallowed
up his emotional nature, as Aaron's rod did those of
the magicians of Pharaoh, and only the absence of dogmatism,and
the habitual suavity of his manner atoned for his
unbending obstinacy on all points.

Edna's fervid and beautiful enthusiasm surged and chafed
and broke over this man's stern, flinty realism, like the

warm, blue waters of the Gulf Stream that throw their
silvery spray and foam against the glittering walls of sapphire
icebergs sailing slowly southward. Her glowing imagery
fell upon the bristling points of his close phalanx of
arguments, as gorgeous tropical garlands caught and empaled
by bayonets until they faded.

Merciless as an anatomical lecturer, he would smilingly
take up one of her metaphors and dissect it, and over the
pages of her MSS. for “Maga” his gravely spoken criticisms
fell withering as hoar-frost.

They differed in all respects, yet daily they felt the need
of each other's society. The frozen man of forty sunned
himself in the genial presence of a lovely girl of nineteen,
and in the dawn of her literary career she felt a sense of
security from his proffered guidance, even as a wayward
and ambitious child, just learning to walk, totters along
with less apprehension when the strong, steady hand it refuses
to hold is yet near enough to catch and save from a
serious fall.

While fearlessly attacking all heresy, whether political,
scientific, or ethical, all latitudinarianism in manners and
sciolism in letters, he commanded the confidence and esteem
of all, and became in great degree the centre around which
the savants and literati of the city revolved.

Through his influence Edna made the acquaintance of
some of the most eminent scholars and artists who formed
this clique, and she found that his friendship and recommendation
was an “open sesame” to the charmed circle.

One Saturday Edna sat with her bonnet on, waiting for
Mr. Manning, who had promised to accompany her on her
first visit to Greenwood, and, as she put on her gloves, Felix
handed her a letter which his father had just brought up.

Recognizing Mrs. Murray's writing the governess read it
immediately, and, while her eyes ran over the sheet, an expression,
first of painful then of joyful surprise, came into
her countenance.

“My dear child, doubtless you will be amazed to hear
that your quondam lover has utterly driven your image
from his fickle heart; and that he ignores your existence as
completely as if you were buried twenty feet in the ruins
of Herculaneum. Last night Gordon Leigh was married to
Gertrude Powell, and the happy pair, attended by that despicable
mother, Agnes Powell, will set out for Europe
early next week. My dear, it is growing fashionable to
`marry for spite.' I have seen two instances recently, and
know of a third which will take place ere long. Poor Gordon
will rue his rashness, and, before the year expires, he
will arrive at the conclusion that he is an unmitigated fool,
and has simply performed, with great success, an operation
familiarly known as cutting off one's nose to spite one's
face! Your rejection of his renewed offer piqued him beyond
expression, and when he returned from New-York he
was in exactly the most accommodating frame of mind
which Mrs. Powell could desire. She immediately laid
siege to him. Gertrude's undisguised preference for his society
was extremely soothing to his vanity which you had
so severely wounded, and in fine, the indefatigable manœuvres
of the wily mamma, and the continual flattery of
the girl, who is really very pretty, accomplished the result.
I once credited Gordon with more sense than he has manifested,
but each year convinces me more firmly of the truth
of my belief that no man is proof against the subtle and
persistent flattery of a beautiful woman. When he announced
his engagement to me, we were sitting in the library,
and I looked him full in the face, and answered: `Indeed!
Engaged to Miss Powell? I thought you swore
that so long as Edna Earl remained unmarried you would
never relinquish your suit?' He pointed to that lovely
statuette of Pallas that stands on the mantelpiece, and said
bitterly, `Edna Earl has no more heart than that marble
Athena.' Whereupon I replied, `Take care, Gordon, I
notice that of late you seem inclined to deal rather too

freely in hyperbole. Edna's heart may resemble the rich
veins of gold, which in some mines run not near the surface
but deep in the masses of quartz. Because you can not obtain
it, you have no right to declare that it does not exist.
You will probably live to hear some more fortunate suitor
shout Eureka! over the treasure.' He turned pale as the
Pallas and put his hand over his face. Then I said, `Gordon,
my young friend, I have always been deeply interested
in your happiness; tell me frankly, do you love this girl
Gertrude?' He seemed much embarrassed, but finally
made his confession: `Mrs. Murray, I believe I shall be
fond of her after a while. She is very lovely, and deeply,
deeply attached to me, (vanity you see, Edna,) and I am
grateful for her affection. She will brighten my lonely
home, and at least I can be proud of her rare beauty. But
I never expect to love any woman as I loved Edna Earl. I
can pet Gertrude, I should have worshipped my first love,
my proud, gifted, peerless Edna! Oh! she will never realize
all she threw away when she coldly dismissed me.' Poor
Gordon! Well, he is married; but his bride might have
found cause of disquiet in his restless, abstracted manner on
the evening of his wedding. What do you suppose was St.
Elmo's criticism on this matrimonial mismatch? `Poor
devil! Before a year rolls over his head he will feel like
plunging into the Atlantic, with Plymouth Rock for a necklace!
Leigh deserves a better fate, and I would rather see
him tied to wild horses and dragged across the Andes.'
These pique marriages are terrible mistakes; so, my dear, I
trust you will duly repent of your cruelty to poor Gordon.”

As Edna put the letter in her pocket, she wondered
whether Gertrude really loved her husband, or whether
chagrin at Mr. Murray's heartless desertion had not goaded
the girl to accept Mr. Leigh.

“Perhaps, after all, Mr. Murray was correct in his estimate
of her character, when he said that she was a mere

child, and was capable of no very earnest affection. I hope
so—I hope so.”

Edna sighed as she tried to assure herself of the probability
that the newly married pair would become more attached
as time passed; and her thoughts returned to that
paragraph in Mrs. Murray's letter which seemed intentionally
mysterious, “I know of a third instance which will
take place ere long.”

Did she allude to her son and her niece? Edna could
not believe this possible, and shook her head at the suggestion;
but her lips grew cold, and her fingers locked each
other as in a clasp of steel.

When Mr. Manning called, and assisted her into the carriage,
he observed an unusual preoccupancy of mind; but
after a few desultory remarks she rallied, gave him her undivided
attention, and seemed engrossed by his conversation.

It was a fine, sunny day, bright but cool, with a fresh
and stiffening west wind rippling the waters of the harbor.

The week had been one of unusual trial, for Felix was
sick, and even more than ordinarily fretful and exacting;
and weary of writing and of teaching so constantly, the
governess enjoyed the brief season of emancipation.

Mr. Manning's long residence in the city had familiarized
him with the beauties of Greenwood, and the history of
many who slept dreamlessly in the costly mausoleums
which they paused to examine and admire; and when at
last he directed the driver to return, Edna sank back in one
corner of the carriage and said: “Some morning I will
come with the children and spend the entire day.”

She closed her eyes, and her thoughts travelled swiftly to
that pure white obelisk standing in the shadow of Lookout;
and melancholy memories brought a sigh to her lips and a
slight cloud to the face that for two hours past had been singularly
bright and animated. The silence had lasted some
minutes, when Mr. Manning, who was gazing abstractedly
out of the window, turned to his companion and said:

“You look pale and badly to-day.”

“I have not felt as strong as usual, and it is a great treat
to get away from the school-room and out into the open air,
which is bracing and delightful. I believe I have enjoyed
this ride more than any I have taken since I came North;
and you must allow me to tell you how earnestly I thank
you for your considerate remembrance of me.”

“Miss Earl, what I am about to say will perhaps seem
premature, and will doubtless surprise you; but I beg you
to believe that it is the result of mature deliberation—”

He paused and looked earnestly at her.

“You certainly have not decided to give up the editorship
of `Maga,' as you spoke of doing last winter? It
would not survive your desertion six months.”

“My allusion was to yourself, not to the magazine, which
I presume I shall edit as long as I live. Miss Earl, this
state of affairs can not continue. You have no regard for
your health, which is suffering materially, and you are destroying
yourself. You must let me take care of you, and
save you from the ceaseless toil in which you are rapidly
wearing out your life. To teach, as you do, all day, and
then sit up nearly all night to write, would exhaust a constitution
of steel or brass. You are probably not aware of
the great change which has taken place in your appearance
during the last three months. Hitherto circumstances may
have left you no alternative, but one is now offered you.
My property is sufficient to render you comfortable. I have
already purchased a pleasant home, to which I shall remove
next week, and I want you to share it with me—to share
my future—all that I have. You have known me scarcely
a year, but you are not a stranger to my character or position,
and I think that you repose implicit confidence in me.
Notwithstanding the unfortunate disparity in our years,
I believe we are becoming mutually dependent on each
other, and in your society I find a charm such as no other
human being possesses; though I have no right to expect

that a girl of your age can derive equal pleasure from the
companionship of a man old enough to be her father. I am
not demonstrative, but my feelings are warm and deep;
and however incredulous you may be, I assure you that you
are the first, the only woman I have ever asked to be my
wife. I have known many who were handsome and intellectual,
whose society I have really enjoyed, but not one,
until I met you, whom I would have married. To you alone
am I willing to intrust the education of my little Lila. She
was but six months old when we were wrecked off Barnegat,
and, in attempting to save his wife, my brother was
lost. With the child in my arms I clung to a spar, and
finally swam ashore; and since then, regarding her as a sacred
treasure committed to my guardianship, I have faithfully
endeavored to supply her father's place. There is a
singular magnetism about you, Edna Earl, which makes
me wish to see your face always at my hearthstone; and
for the first time in my life I want to say to the world,
`This woman wears my name, and belongs to me for ever!'
You are inordinately ambitious; I can lift you to a position
that will fully satisfy you, and place you above the necessity
of daily labor—a position of happiness and ease, where
your genius can properly develop itself. Can you consert
to be Douglass Manning's wife?”

There was no more tremor in his voice than in the measured
beat of a base drum; and in his granite face not a
feature moved, not a muscle twitched, not a nerve quivered.

So entirely unexpected was this proposal that Edna could
not utter a word. The idea that he could ever wish to
marry any body seemed incredible, and that he should need
her society, appeared utterly absurd. For an instant she
wondered if she had fallen asleep in the soft, luxurious corner
of the carriage, and dreamed it all.

Completely bewildered, she sat looking wonderingly at
him.

“Miss Earl, you do not seem to comprehend me, and yet

my words are certainly very explicit. Once more I ask
you, can you put your hand in mine and be my wife?”

He laid one hand on hers, and with the other pushed
back his glasses.

Withdrawing her hands, she covered her face with them,
and answered almost inaudibly:

“Let me think—for you astonish me.”

“Take a day, or a week, if necessary, for consideration,
and then give me your answer.”

Mr. Manning leaned back in the carriage, folded his
hands over each other, and looked quietly out of the window;
and for a half hour silence reigned.

Brief but severe was the struggle in Edna's heart. Probably
no woman's literary vanity and ambition has ever
been more fully gratified than was hers, by this most unexpected
offer of marriage from one whom she had been
taught to regard as the noblest ornament of the profession
she had selected. Thinking of the hour when she sat
alone, shedding tears of mortification and bitter disappointment
over his curt letter rejecting her MS., she glanced at
the stately form beside her, the mysteriously calm, commanding
face, the large white, finely moulded hands, waiting
to clasp hers for all time, and her triumph seemed
complete.

To rule the destiny of that strong man, whose intellect
was so influential in the world of letters, was a conquest
of which, until this hour, she had never dreamed; and the
blacksmith's darling was, after all, a mere woman, and the
honor dazzled her.

To one of her peculiar temperament wealth offered no
temptation; but Douglass Manning had climbed to a
grand eminence, and, looking up at it, she knew that any
woman might well be proud to share it.

He filled her ideal, he came fully up to her lofty moral
and mental standard. She knew that his superior she
could never hope to meet, and her confidence in his nobility
of character was boundless.

She felt that his society had become necessary to her
peace of mind; for only in his presence was it possible to
forget her past. Either she must marry him, or live single,
and work and die—alone.

To a girl of nineteen the latter alternative seems more
appalling than to a woman of thirty, whose eyes have
grown strong in the gray, cold, sunless light of confirmed
old-maidenhood; even as the vision of those who live in
dim caverns requires not the lamps, needed by new-comers
fresh from the dazzling outer world.

Edna was weary of battling with precious memories of
that reckless, fascinating cynic whom, without trusting,
she had learned to love; and she thought that, perhaps, if
she were the wife of Mr. Manning, whom without loving
she fully trusted, it would help her to forget St. Elmo.

She did not deceive herself; she knew that, despite her
struggles and stern interdicts, she loved him as she could
never hope to love any one else. Impatiently she said to
herself:

“Mr. Murray is as old as Mr. Manning, and in the estimation
of the public is his inferior. Oh! why can not my
weak, wayward heart follow my strong, clear-eyed judgment?
I would give ten years of my life to love Mr. Manning
as I love—”

She compared a swarthy, electrical face, scowling and
often repulsively harsh, with one cloudless and noble, over
which brooded a solemn and perpetual peace; and she
almost groaned aloud in her chagrin and self-contempt, as
she thought, “Surely, if ever a woman was infatuated —
possessed by an evil spirit—I certainly am.”

In attempting to institute a parallel between the two
men, one seemed serene, majestic, and pure as the vast
snow-dome of Oræfa, glittering in the chill light of midsummer-midnight
suns; the other fiery, thunderous, destructive
as Izalco—one moment crowned with flames and
lava-lashed — the next wrapped in gloom and dust and
ashes.

While she sat there wrestling as she had never done before,
even on that day of trial in the church, memory, as if
leagued with Satan, brought up the image of Mr. Murray
as he stood pleading for himself, for his future. She heard
once more his thrilling, passionate cry, “O my darling!
my darling! come to me!” And pressing her face to the
lining of the carriage to stifle a groan, she seemed to feel
again the close clasp of his arms, the throbbing of his heart
against her cheek, the warm, tender, lingering pressure of
his lips on hers.

When they had crossed the ferry and were rattling over
the streets of New-York, Edna took her hands from her
eyes; and there was a rigid paleness in her face and a
mournful hollowness in her voice, as she said almost
sternly:

“No, Mr. Manning! We do not love each other, and I
can never be your wife. It is useless for me to assure you
that I am flattered by your preference; that I am inexpressibly
proud of the distinction you have generously
offered to confer upon me. Sir, you can not doubt that I
do most fully and gratefully appreciate this honor, which I
had neither the right to expect nor the presumption to
dream of. My reverence and admiration are, I confess,
almost boundless, but I find not one atom of love; and an
examination of my feelings satisfies me that I could never
yield you that homage of heart, that devoted affection
which God demands that every wife should pay her husband.
You have quite as little love for me. We enjoy
each other's society because our pursuits are similar, our
tastes congenial, our aspirations identical. In pleasant and
profitable companionship we can certainly indulge as heretofore,
and it would greatly pain me to be deprived of it
in future; but this can be ours without the sinful mockery
of a marriage—for such I hold a loveless union. I feel that
I must have your esteem and your society, but your love I
neither desire nor ever expect to possess; for the sentiments

you cherish for me are precisely similar to those which I
entertain toward you. Mr. Manning, we shall always be
firm friends, but nothing more.”

An expression of surprise and disappointment drifted
across, but did not settle on the editor's quiet countenance.

Turning to her, he answered with grave gentleness:

“Judge your own heart, Edna; and accept my verdict
with reference to mine. Do you suppose that after living
single all these years I would ultimately marry a woman
for whom I had no affection? You spoke last week of the
mirror of John Galeazzo Visconte, which showed his beloved
Correggia her own image; and though I am a proud
and reticent man, I beg you to believe that could you look
into my heart you would find it such a mirror. Permit me
to ask whether you intend to accept the love which I have
reason to believe Mr. Murray has offered you?”

“Mr. Manning, I never expect to marry any one, for I
know that I shall never meet your superior, and yet I can
not accept your most flattering offer. You fill all my requirements
of noble, Christian manhood; but after to-day
this subject must not be alluded to.”

“Are you not too hasty? Will you not take more time
for reflection? Is your decision mature and final?”

“Yes, Mr. Manning—final, unchangeable. But do not
throw me from you! I am very, very lonely, and you
surely will not forsake me?”

There were tears in her eyes as she looked up pleadingly
in his face, and the editor sighed and paused a moment
before he replied:

“Edna, if under any circumstances you feel that I can
aid or advise you, I shall be exceedingly glad to render
all the assistance in my power. Rest assured I shall not
forsake you as long as we both shall live. Call upon me
without hesitation, and I will respond as readily and
promptly as to the claims of my little Lila. In my heart
you are associated with her. You must not tax yourself

so unremittingly, or you will soon ruin your constitution.
There is a weariness in your face and a languor in your
manner mournfully prophetic of failing health. Either give
up your situation as governess or abandon your writing. I
certainly recommend the former, as I can not spare you
from `Maga.'”

Here the carriage stopped at Mrs. Andrews's door, and
as he handed her out Mr. Manning said:

“Edna, my friend, promise me that you will not write
to-night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manning; I promise.”

She did not go to her desk; but Felix was restless, feverish,
querulous, and it was after midnight when she laid her
head on her pillow. The milkmen in their noisy carts were
clattering along the streets next morning, before her heavy
eyelids closed, and she fell into a brief, troubled slumber;
over which flitted a Fata Morgana of dreams, where the
central figure was always that tall one whom she had seen
last standing at the railroad dépôt, with the rain dripping
over him.