University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

WORTHY? No, no! Unworthy! most unworthy!
But was Thomas worthy to tend the wandering
sheep of Him,whom face to face he doubted?
Was Peter worthy to preach the Gospel
of Him, whom he had thrice indignantly denied? Was
Paul worthy to become the Apostle of the Gentiles, teaching
the doctrine of Him, whose disciples he had persecuted
and slaughtered? If the repentance of Peter and Paul
availed to purify their hands and hearts, and sanctify them
to the service of Christ, ah! God knows my contrition has
been bitter and lasting enough to fit me for future usefulness.
Eight months ago, when the desire to become a minister
seized me so tenaciously, I wrestled with it, tried to
crush it; arguing that the knowledge of my past life of sinfulness
would prevent the world from trusting my professions.
But those who even slightly understand my character,
must know that I have always been too utterly indifferent
to, too unfortunately contemptuous of public opinion,
to stoop to any deception in order to conciliate it. Moreover,
the world will realize that in a merely worldly point
of view I can possibly hope to gain nothing, by this step.
If I were poor, I might be accused of wanting the loaves
and fishes of the profession; if unknown and ambitious, of
seeking eminence and popularity. But when a man of my
wealth and social position, after spending half of his life
in luxurious ease and sinful indulgence, voluntarily subjects

himself to the rigid abstemiousness and self-sacrificing requirements
of a ministerial career, he can not be suspected
of hypocrisy. After all, sir, I care not for the discussion,
the nine days' gossip and wonder, the gibes and comments
my course may occasion. I am hearkening to the counsel
of my conscience; I am obeying the dictates of my heart.
Feeling that my God accepts me, it matters little that men
may reject me. My remorse, my repentance, has been inexpressibly
bitter; but the darkness has passed away, and
to-day, thank God! I can pray with all the fervor and faith
of my boyhood, when I knew that I was at peace with my
Maker. Oblivion of the past I do not expect, and perhaps
should not desire. I shall always wear my melancholy
memories of sin, as Mussulmen wear their turban or pall—
as a continual memento of death. Because I have proved
so fully the inadequacy of earthly enjoyments to satisfy the
demands of a soul; because I tried the alluring pleasures
of sin, and was satiated, ah! utterly sickened, I turn with
panting eagerness to the cool, quiet peace which reigns over
the life of a true Christian pastor. I want neither fame
nor popularity, but peace!—peace I must have! I have
hunted the world over and over; I have sought it everywhere
else, and now, thank God! I feel that it is descending
slowly, slowly, but surely, upon my lonely, long-tortured
heart. Thank God! I have found peace after much
strife and great weariness—”

Mr. Murray could no longer control his voice; and as he
stood leaning against the mantel-piece at the parsonage, he
dropped his head on his hand.

“St. Elmo, the purity of your motives will never be
questioned, for none who know you could believe you capable
of dissembling in this matter; and my heart can scarcely
contain its joy when I look forward to your future, so
bright with promise, so full of usefulness. The marked
change in your manner during the past two years, has prepared
the community for the important step you are to take

to-day, and your influence with young men will be incalculable.
Once your stern bitterness rendered you an object of
dread; now I find that you are respected, and people here
watch your conduct with interest, and even with anxiety.
Ah St. Elmo! I never imagined earth held as much pure
happiness as is my portion to-day. To see you one of God's
anointed! To see you ministering in the temple! Oh! to
know that when I am gone to rest you will take my place,
guard my flock, do your own work and poor Murray's, and
finish mine! This, this is indeed the crowning blessing of
my old age.”

For some minutes Mr. Hammond sobbed; and, lifting
his face, Mr. Murray answered:

“As I think of the coming years consecrated to Christ,
passed peacefully in endeavoring to atone for the injury and
suffering I have inflicted on my fellow-creatures; oh! as
the picture of a calm, useful, holy future rises before me, I
feel indeed that I am unworthy, most unworthy of my peace;
but thank God!

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning, just one year after
Edna's departure from the parsonage, and the church was
crowded to its utmost capacity, for people had come for
many miles around, to witness a ceremony the announcement
of which, had given rise to universal comment. As
the hour approached for the ordination of St. Elmo Murray
to the ministry of Jesus Christ, even the doors were filled
with curious spectators; and when Mr. Hammond and St.
Elmo walked down the aisle, and the old man seated himself
in a chair within the altar, there was a general stir in
the congregation.

The officiating minister had come from a distant city to
perform a ceremony of more than usual interest; and when
he stood up in the pulpit, and the organ thundered through

the arches, St. Elmo bowed his head on his hand, and sat
thus during the hour that ensued.

The ordination sermon was solemn and eloquent, and
preached from the text in Romans:

“For when ye were the servants of sin, ye were free
from righteousness. But now being made free from sin,
and become servants to God, ye have your fruit unto holiness,
and the end everlasting life.”

Then the minister, having finished his discourse, came
down into the altar and commenced the services; but Mr.
Murray sat motionless, with his countenance concealed by
his hand. Mr. Hammond approached and touched him,
and, as he rose, led him to the altar, and presented him as
a candidate for ordination.

There, before the shining marble pulpit which he had
planned and built in the early years of his life, for the idol
of his youth, stood St. Elmo; and the congregation, especially
those of his native village, looked with involuntary
admiration and pride at the erect, powerful form, clad in
its suit of black—at the nobly-proportioned head, where
gray locks were visible.

“But if there be any of you who knoweth any impediment
or crime, for the which he ought not to be received
into this holy ministry, let him come forth, in the name of
God, and show what the crime or impediment is.”

The preacher paused, the echo of his words died away,
and perfect silence reigned. Suddenly St. Elmo raised his
eyes from the railing of the altar, and, turning his face
slightly, looked through the eastern window at the ivy-draped
vault where slept Murray and Annie. The world
was silent, but conscience and the dead accused him. An
expression of intolerable anguish crossed his handsome features,
then his hands folded themselves tightly together on
the top of the marble balustrade, and he looked appealingly
up to the pale Jesus staggering under his cross.

At that instant a spotless white pigeon from the belfry,

found its way into the church through the open doors, circled
once around the building, fluttered against the window,
hiding momentarily the crown of thorns, and, frightened
and confused, fell upon the fluted pillar of the pulpit.

An electric thrill ran through the congregation; and as
the minister resumed the services, he saw on St. Elmo's face
a light, a great joy, such as human countenances rarely
wear this side the grave.

When Mr. Murray knelt and the ordaining hands were
laid upon his head, a sob was heard from the pew where his
mother sat, and the voice of the preacher faltered as he delivered
the Bible to the kneeling man, saying:

“Take thou authority to preach the word of God, and to
administer the holy sacraments in the congregation.”

There were no dry eyes in the entire assembly, save two
that looked out, coldly blue, from the pew where Mrs.
Powell sat like a statue, between her daughter and Gordon
Leigh.

Mr. Hammond tottered across the altar, and knelt down
close to Mr. Murray; and many who knew the history of
the pastor's family, wept as the gray head fell on the broad
shoulder of St. Elmo, whose arm was thrown around the
old man's form, and the ordaining minister, with tears rolling
over his face, extended his hands in benediction above
them.

“The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,
keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of
God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord; and the blessing
of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost, be among you, and remain with you alway.”

And all hearts and lips present whispered “Amen!” and
the organ and the choir broke forth in a grand “Gloria in
excelsis.”

Standing there at the chancel, purified, consecrated henceforth
unreservedly to Christ, Mr. Murray looked so happy,

so noble, so worthy of his high calling, that his proud, fond
mother thought his face was fit for an archangel's wings.

Many persons who had known him in his boyhood, came
up with tears in their eyes, and wrung his hand silently.
At last Huldah pointed to the white pigeon, that was now
beating its wings against the gilded pipes of the organ,
and said, in that singularly sweet, solemn, hesitating tone,
with which children approach sacred things:

“O Mr. Murray! when it fell on the pulpit, it nearly
took my breath away, for I almost thought it was the Holy
Ghost.”

Tears, which till then he had bravely kept back, dripped
over his face, as he stooped and whispered to the little orphan:

“Huldah, the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, came indeed;
but it was not visible, it is here in my heart.”

The congregation dispersed. Mrs. Murray and the
preacher and Huldah went to the carriage; and, leaning
on Mr. Murray's arm, Mr. Hammond turned to follow, but
observing that the church was empty, the former said:

“After a little, I will come.”

The old man walked on, and Mr. Murray went back and
knelt, resting his head against the beautiful glittering balustrade,
within which he hoped to officiate through the
remaining years of his earthly career.

Once the sexton, who was waiting to lock up the church,
looked in, saw the man praying alone there at the altar,
and softly stole away.

When Mr. Murray came out, the churchyard seemed deserted;
but as he crossed it, going homeward, a woman
rose from one of the tombstones and stood before him—
the yellow-haired Jezebel, with sapphire eyes and soft,
treacherous red lips, who had goaded him to madness and
blasted the best years of his life.

At sight of her he recoiled, as if a cobra capello had
started up in his path.

“St. Elmo, my beloved! in the name of other days, stop
and hear me. By the memory of our early love, I entreat
you!”

She came close to him, and the alabaster face was marvellously
beautiful in its expression of penitential sweetness.

“St. Elmo, can you never forgive me for the suffering I
caused you, in my giddy girlhood?”

She took his hand and attempted to raise it to her lips;
but shaking off her touch, he stepped back, and steadily
they looked in each other's eyes.

“Agnes, I forgive you. May God pardon your sins, as
He has pardoned mine!”

He turned away, but she seized his coat-sleeve and threw
herself before him, standing with both hands clasping his
arm.

“If you mean what you say, there is happiness yet in
store for us. O St. Elmo! how often have I longed to
come and lay my head down on your bosom, and tell
you all. But you were so stern and harsh I was afraid.
To-day when I saw you melted, when the look of your
boyhood came dancing back to your dear eyes, I was
encouraged to hope that your heart had softened also
toward one, who so long possessed it. Is there hope for
your poor Agnes? Hope that the blind, silly girl, who,
ignorant of the value of the treasure, slighted and spurned
it, may indeed be pardoned, when, as a woman realizing
her folly, and sensible at last of the nobility of a nature she
once failed to appreciate, she comes and says—what it is
so hard for a woman to say—`Take me back to your heart,
gather me up in your arms, as in the olden days, because—
because I love you now; because only your love can make
me happy.' St. Elmo, we are no longer young; but believe
me when I tell you that at last—at last—your own Agnes
loves you as she never loved any one, even in her girlhood.
Once I preferred my cousin Murray to you; but think how

giddy I must have been, when I could marry before a year
had settled the sod on his grave? I did not love my husband,
but I married him for the same reason that I would
have married you then. And yet for that there is some
palliation. It was to save my father from disgrace that I
sacrificed myself; for money intrusted to his keeping—
money belonging to his orphan ward—had been used by
him in a ruinous speculation, and only prompt repayment
could prevent exposure. Remember I was so young, so
vain, so thoughtless then! St. Elmo, pity me! love me!
take me back to your heart! God is my witness that I do
love you entirely now! Dearest, say, `Agnes, I will forgive
all, and trust you and love you as in the days long
past.'”

She tried to put her arms up around his neck and to rest
her head on his shoulder; but he resisted and put her at
arm's length from him.

Holding her there, he looked at her with cold scorn in
his eyes, and a heavy shadow darkening the brow that five
minutes before had been so calm, so bright.

“Agnes, how dare you attempt to deceive me, after all
that has passed between us? O woman! In the name
of all true womanhood I could blush for you!”

She struggled to free herself, to get closer to him, but his
stern grasp was relentless; and, as tears poured down her
cheeks, she clasped her hands and sobbed out:

“You do not believe that I really love you! Oh!
do not look at me so harshly! I am not deceiving
you; as I hope for pardon and rest for my soul—as I
hope to see my father's face in heaven—I am not deceiving
you! I do—I do love you! When I spoke to
you about Gertrude, it cost me a dreadful pang; but I
thought you loved her because she resembled me; and for
my child's sake I crushed my own hopes—I wanted, if possible,
to save her from suffering. But you only upbraided
and heaped savage sarcasms upon me. O St. Elmo! if

you could indeed see my poor heart, you would not look so
cruelly cold. You ought to know that I am terribly in earnest
when I can stoop to beg for the ruins of a heart, which
in its freshness I once threw away, and trampled on.”

He had seen her weep before, when it suited her purpose,
and he only smiled and answered:

“Yes, Agnes, you ruined it, and trampled it in the mire
of sin; but I have rebuilt it, and, by the mercy of God, I
hope I have purified it. Look you, woman! when you
overturned the temple, you crumbled your own image that
was set up there; and I long, long ago swept out and gave
to the hungry winds the despised dust of the broken idol,
and over my heart you can reign no more! The only queen
it has known since that awful night, twenty-three years
ago, when my faith, hope, charity were all strangled in an
instant by the velvet hand I had kissed in my doating fondness—the
only queen my heart has acknowledged since then,
is one who, in her purity soars like an angel above you and
me, and her dear name is—Edna Earl.”

“Edna Earl!—a puritanical fanatic! Nay, a Pharisee!
A cold prude, a heartless blue! A woman with some brain
and no feeling, who loves nothing but her own fame, and
has no sympathy with your nature. St. Elmo, are you insane!
Did you not see that letter from Estelle to your
mother, stating that she, Edna, would certainly be married
in February, to the celebrated Mr. Manning, who was then
on his way to Rome to meet her? Did you see that letter?”

“I did.”

“And discredit it? Blindness, madness, equal to my
own in the days gone by! Edna Earl exists no longer;
she was married a month ago. Here, read for yourself, or
you will believe that I fabricate the whole.”

She held a newspaper before his eyes, and he saw a paragraph,
marked with a circle of ink, “Marriage in Literary
Circles:”

“The very reliable correspondent of the New-York —
writes from Rome that the Americans now in that city, are
on the qui vive concerning a marriage announced to take
place, on Thursday next, at the residence of the American
Minister. The very distinguished parties are Miss Edna
Earl, the gifted and exceedingly popular young authoress,
whose works have given her an enviable reputation, even
on this side of the Atlantic, and Mr. Douglass G. Manning,
the well-known and able editor of the — Magazine. The
happy pair will start, immediately after the ceremony, on
a tour through Greece and the Holy Land.”

Mr. Murray opened the paper, glanced at the date, and
his swarthy face paled as he put his hands over his eyes.

Mrs. Powell came nearer, and once more touched his
hand; but, with a gesture of disgust, he pushed her aside.

“Away, woman! Not a word—not one word more!
You are not worthy to take my darling's name upon your
lips! She may be Manning's wife—God forbid it!—or she
may be in her grave. I have lost her, I know; but if I
never see her dear angel face again in this world, it will be
in consequence of my sins, and of yours; and with God's
help, I mean to live out the remainder of my days, so that
at last I shall meet her in eternity! Leave me, Agnes!
Do not make me forget the vows I have to-day taken upon
myself, in the presence of the world and of my Maker. In
future, keep out of my path, which will never cross yours;
do not rouse the old hate toward you, which I am faithfully
striving to overcome. The first time I went to the communion-table,
after the lapse of all those dreary years of
sin and desperation, I asked myself, `Have I a right to the
sacrament of the Lord's Supper?—can I face God and say,
I forgive Agnes Powell?' Finally, after a hard struggle, I
said, from the depths of my heart, `Even as I need and
hope for forgiveness myself, I do fully forgive her.' Mark
you, it was my injuries that I pardoned, your treachery
that I forgave. But recollect there is a mournful truth in
those words: `There is no pardon for desecrated ideals!

Once, in the flush of my youth, I selected you as the beau
ideal of beautiful, perfect womanhood; but you fell from
that lofty pedestal where my ardent, boyish love set you
for worship, and you dragged me down, down, almost beyond
the pale of God's mercy! I forgive all my wrongs;
but `take you back, love you?' Ah! I can never love any
one, I never, even in my boyhood, loved you, as I love my
pure darling, my own Edna! Her memory is all I have to
cheer and strengthen me in my lonely work. I do not believe
that she is married; no, no, but she is in her grave.
For many days past, I have been oppressed by a horrible
presentiment that she has gone to her rest in Christ—that
the next steamer will bring me the tidings of her death.
Do not touch me, Agnes! If there be any truth in what
you have to-day asserted so solemnly, (though I can not
believe it, for if you ridiculed and disliked me in my noble
youth, how can you love the same man in the melancholy
wreck of his hopes?) if there be a shadow of truth in your
words, you are indeed to be pitied. Ah! you and I have
learned at a terrible price the deceitfulness of riches, the
hollowness of this world's pleasures; and both have
writhed under the poisonous fangs that always dart from
the dregs of the cup of sin, which you and I have drained.
Experience must have taught you, also, what I was so long
in learning—the utter hopelessness of peace for heart and
soul save only through that religion, which so far subdues
even my sinful, vindictive, satanic nature, that I can say to
you—you who blasted all my earthly happiness—I forgive
you my sufferings, and hope that God will give you that
pardon and comfort which after awful conflicts I have found
at last. Several times you have thrust yourself into my
presence; but if there remains any womanly delicacy in
your nature, you will avoid me henceforth when I tell you
that I loathe the sight of one whose unwomanliness stabbed
my trust in womanhood, and sunk me so low that I lost
Edna Earl. Agnes, go yonder—where I have spent so
many hours of agony—yonder to the graves of your victims
as well as mine! Go down on your knees yonder, and
pray for yourself, and may God help you!”

He pointed to the gray vault and the slab that covered
Annie and Murray Hammond; and disengaging her fingers,
which still clutched his sleeve, he turned quickly and walked
away.

Her mournful eyes, strained wide and full of tears, followed
him till his form was no longer visible; and sinking
down on the monument—whence she had risen at his approach—she
shrouded her fair, delicate features, and rocked
herself to and fro with a despairing wail.

“Lost, lost! O St. Elmo! your loathing is more than I
can bear. Once he hung over me adoringly, wearying
me with his caresses; now he shudders at my touch, as if I
were a viper. And I—what is there that I would not
give for one—just one—of the kisses, which twenty-three
years ago I put up my hand to ward off. O fool that I
was! I cast away the light of his noble, earnest love, and
now he despises me; and I must walk in darkness that
grows blacker as I grope. God grant that Edna Earl may
indeed be in her grave! Or that I may go down into
mine before he sees her again! To give him up to her,
would be more than I could endure. Oh! curses on that
calm face that stole the heart of my daughter's husband,
and won St. Elmo's love from me! How I hate her! Oh!
hold her fast in your icy grasp, grim death! For to see her
in St. Elmo's arms, would drive me wild! Sleep in peace,
Murray Hammond, you are indeed avenged.”

When she went slowly homeward an hour later, with her
veil drawn closely over her tear-stained face, the unvoiced
wish of her aching heart was like hopeless Œnone's: