University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

DURING the months of September and October
Mrs. Murray filled the house with company,
and parties of gentlemen came from time to
time to enjoy the game season and take part in
the hunts to which St. Elmo devoted himself. There were
elegant dinners and petits soupers that would not have
disgraced Tusculum, or made Lucullus blush when Pompey
and Cicero sought to surprise him in the “Apollo;”
there were billiard-matches and horse-races, and merry
gatherings at the ten-pin alley; and laughter, and music,
and dancing usurped the dominions where silence and
gloom had so long reigned. Naturally shy and unaccustomed
to companionship, Edna felt no desire to participate
in these festivities, but became more and more absorbed in
her studies, and her knowledge of the company was limited
to the brief intercourse of the table, where she observed
the deference yielded to the opinions of the master of the
house, and the dread that all manifested lest they should
fall under the lash of his merciless sarcasm. An Ishmael in
society, his uplifted hand smote all conventionalities and
shams, spared neither age nor sex, nor sanctuaries, and acknowledged
sanctity nowhere. The punctilious courtesy
of his manner polished and pointed his satire, and when a
personal application of his remarks was possible, he would
bow gracefully to the lady indicated, and fill her glass with
wine, while he filled her heart with chagrin and rankling
hate. Since the restoration of the Dante, not a word had

passed between him and Edna, who regarded him with increasing
detestation; but on one occasion, when the conversation
was general, and he sat silent at the foot of the
table, she looked up at him and found his eyes fixed on her
face. Inclining his head slightly to arrest her attention, he
handed a decanter of sherry to one of the servants, with
some brief direction, and a moment after her glass was
filled, and the waiter said:

“Mr. Murray's compliments to Aaron Hunt's granddaughter.”
Observation had taught her what was customary on
such occasions, and she knew that he had once noticed her
taking wine with the gentleman who sat next to her; but
now repugnance conquered politeness, the mention of her
grandfather's name seemed an insult from his lips, and putting
her hand over her glass, she looked him full in the
face and shook her head. Nevertheless he lifted his wine,
bowed, and drank the last drop in the crystal goblet; then
turned to a gentleman on his right hand, and instantly entered
into a learned discussion on the superiority of the
wines of the Levant over those of Germany, quoting
triumphantly the lines of M. de Nevers:

When the ladies withdrew to the parlor he rose, as was
his custom, and held the door open for them. Edna was
the last of the party, and as she passed him he smiled
mockingly and said:

“It was unfortunate that my mother omitted to enumerate
etiquette in the catalogue of studies prosecuted at the
parsonage.”

Instantly the answer sprang to her lips:

“She knew I had a teacher for that branch, nearer
home;” but her conscience smote her, she repressed the
words, and said gravely:

“My reason was, that I think only good friends should
take wine together.”

“This is your declaration of war? Very well, only
remember I raise a black flag and show no quarter. Woe
to the conquered!”

She hurried away to the library, and thenceforth “kept
out of his way” more assiduously than ever; while the
fact that he scrutinized her closely, rendered her constrained
and uncomfortable, when forced to enter his presence.
Mrs. Murray well understood her hostile feeling
toward her son, but she never alluded to it, and his name
was not mentioned by either.

One by one the guests departed; autumn passed, winter
was ushered in by wailing winds and drizzling rains; and
one morning as Edna came out of the hothouse, with a
basketful of camellias, she saw St. Elmo bidding his
mother good-by, as he started on his long journey to
Oceanica. They stood on the steps, Mrs. Murray's head
rested on his shoulder, and bitter tears were falling on her
cheeks as she talked eagerly and rapidly to him. Edna
heard him say impatiently:

“You ask what is impossible; it is worse than useless to
urge me. Better pray that I may find a peaceful grave in
the cinnamon groves and under the `plumy palms' of the
far South.”

He kissed his mother's cheek and sprang into the saddle,
but checked his horse at sight of the orphan, who stood
a few yards distant.

“Are you coming to say good-by? Or do you reserve
such courtesies for your `good friends'?”

Regret for her former rudeness, and sympathy for Mrs.
Murray's uncontrollable distress, softened her heart toward
him. She selected the finest white camellia in the basket,
walked close to the horse, and, tendering the flower, said:

“Good-by, sir. I hope you will enjoy your travels.”

“And prolong them indefinitely? Ah! you offer a flag
of truce? I warned you I should not respect it. You
know my motto, `Nemo me impune lacessit!' Thank you

for this lovely peace-offering. Since you are willing to negotiate,
run and open the gate for me. I may never pass
through it again except as a ghost.”

She placed her basket on the steps and ran down the
avenue, while he paused to say something to his mother.
Edna knew that he expected to be absent, possibly, several
years, and while she regretted the pain which his departure
gave her benefactress, she could not avoid rejoicing at the
relief she promised herself during his sojourn in foreign lands.

Slowly he rode along the venerable aisle of elms that had
overarched his childish head in the sunny morning of a
quickly clouded life, and as he reached the gate, which
Edna held open, he dismounted.

“Edna, if you are as truthful in all matters as you have
proved in your dislikes, I may safely intrust this key to
your keeping. It belongs to that marble temple in my
sitting-room, and opens a vault that contains my will, and
a box of papers, and—some other things that I value. There
is no possibility of entering it, except with this key, and no
one but myself knows the contents. I wish to leave the key
with you, on two conditions; first, that you never mention
it to any one—not even my mother, or allow her to suspect
that you have it; secondly, that you promise me solemnly
you will not open the tomb or temple unless I fail to return
at the close of four years. This is the tenth of December—
four years from to-day, if I am not here, and if you have
good reason to consider me dead, take this key (which I wish
you to wear about your person) to my mother, inform her
of this conversation, and then open the vault. Can you
resist the temptation to look into it? Think well before
you answer.”

He had disengaged the golden key from his watch-chain
and held it in his hand.

“I should not like to take charge of it, Mr. Murray. You
can certainly trust your own mother sooner than an utter
stranger like myself.”

He frowned and muttered an oath; then exclaimed,

“I tell you, I do not choose to leave it in any hands but
yours. Will you promise or will you not?”

The dreary wretchedness, the savage hopelessness of his
countenance awed and pained the girl, and after a moment's
silence, and a short struggle with her heart, she extended
her hand, saying with evident reluctance:

“Give me the key, I will not betray your trust.”

“Do you promise me solemnly that you will never open
that vault, except in accordance with my directions? Weigh
the promise well before you give it.”

“Yes, sir; I promise most solemnly.”

He laid the key in her palm and continued:

“My mother loves you—try to make her happy while I
am away; and if you succeed, you will be the first person
to whom I have ever been indebted. I have left directions
concerning my books and the various articles in my rooms.
Feel no hesitation in examining any that may interest you,
and see that the dust does not ruin them. Good-by, child;
take care of my mother.”

He held out his hand, she gave him hers for an instant
only, and he mounted, lifted his cap, and rode away.

Closing the ponderous gate, Edna leaned her face against
the iron bars, and watched the lessening form. Gradually
trees intervened, then at a bend in the road she saw him
wheel his horse as if to return. For some moments he remained
stationary, looking back, but suddenly disappeared;
and, with a sigh of indescribable relief, she retraced her
steps to the house. As she approached the spot where Mrs.
Murray still sat, with her face hidden in her handkerchief,
the touch of the little key, tightly folded in her palm, brought
a painful consciousness of concealment and a tinge of shame
to her cheeks; for it seemed in her eyes an insult to her
benefactress that the guardianship of the papers should
have been withheld from her.

She would have stolen away to her own room to secrete

the key; but Mrs. Murray called her, and as she sat down
beside her the miserable mother threw her arms around the
orphan, and resting her cheek on her head wept bitterly.
Timidly, but very gently and tenderly, the latter strove to
comfort her, caressing the white hands that were clasped in
almost despairing anguish.

“Dear Mrs. Murray, do not grieve so deeply; he may
come back much earlier than you expect. He will get tired
of travelling, and come back to his own beautiful home,
and to you, who love him so devotedly.”

“No, no! he will stay away as long as possible. It is
not beautiful to him. He hates his home and forgets me!
My loneliness, my anxiety, are nothing in comparison to his
morbid love of change. I shall never see him again.”

“But he loves you very much, and that will bring him
to you.”

“Why do you think so?”

“He pointed to you, a few moments ago, and his face was
full of wretchedness when he told me, `Make my mother
happy while I am gone, and you will be the first person to
whom I have ever been indebted.' Do not weep so, dear
Mrs. Murray; God can preserve him as well on sea as here
at home.”

“Oh! but he will not pray for himself!” sobbed the
mother.

“Then you must pray all the more for him; and go
where he will, he can not get beyond God's sight, or out
of His merciful hands. You know Christ said, `Whatsoever
you ask in my name, I will do it;' and if the Syrophenician's
daughter was saved not by her own prayers
but by her mother's faith, why should not God save your
son if you pray and believe?”

Mrs. Murray clasped Edna closer to her heart, and kissed
her warmly.

“You are my only comfort! If I had your faith I should
not be so unhappy. My dear child, promise me one thing

that every time you pray you will remember my son, and
ask God to preserve him in his wanderings, and bring him
safely back to his mother! I know you do not like him
but for my sake will you not do this?”

“My prayers are not worth much, but I will always remember
to pray for him; and, Mrs. Murray, while he is
away, suppose you have family prayer, and let all the house
hold join in praying for the absent master. I think it would
be such a blessing and comfort to you. Grandpa always
had prayer night and morning, and it made every day seem
almost as holy as Sunday.”

Mrs. Murray was silent a little while, and answered hesitatingly:

“But, my dear, I should not know how to offer up prayers
before the family. I can pray for myself, but I should not
like to pray aloud.”

There was a second pause, and finally she said:

“Edna, would you be willing to conduct prayers for
me?”

“It is your house, and God expects the head of every
family to set an example. Even the pagans offered sacrifices
every day for the good of the household, and you know
the Jews had morning and evening sacrifices; so it seems
to me family prayer is such a beautiful offering on the altar
of the hearthstone. If you do not wish to pray yourself,
you could read a prayer; there is a book called Family
Prayer, with selections for every day in the week. I saw a
copy at the parsonage, and I can get one like it at the bookstore
if you desire it.”

“That will suit my purpose much better than trying to
compose them myself. You must get the book for me.
But, Edna, don't go to school to-day, stay at home with
me; I am so lonely and low-spirited. I will tell Mr. Hammond
that I could not spare you. Beside, I want you to
help me arrange some valuable relics belonging to my son;
and, now that I think of it, he told me he wished you to use

any of his books or MSS. that you might like to examine.
This is a great honor, child, for he has refused many grown
people admission to his rooms. Come with me, I want to
lock up his curiosities.”

They went through the rotundo and into the rooms together;
and Mrs. Murray busied herself in carefully removing
the cameos, intaglios, antique vases, goblets, etc., etc.,
from the tables, and placing them in the drawers of the
cabinets. As she crossed the room tears fell on the costly
trifles, and finally she approached the beautiful miniature
temple, and stooped to look at the fastening. She selected
the smallest key on the bunch, that contained a dozen, and
attempted to fit it in the small opening, but it was too large;
then she tried her watch-key, but without success, and a
look of chagrin crossed her sad, tear-stained face—

“St. Elmo has forgotten to leave the key with me.”

Edna's face grew scarlet, and stooping to pick up a heavy
cornelian seal that had fallen on the carpet, she said hastily:

“What is that marble temple intended to hold?”

“I have no idea; it is one of my son's oriental fancies. I
presume he uses it as a private desk for his papers.”

“Does he leave the key with you when he goes from
home?”

“This is the first time he has left home for more than a
few weeks since he brought this gem from the East. I
must write to him about the key before he sails. He has
it on his watch-chain.”

The same curiosity which, in ages long past, prompted
the discovery of the Eleusinian or Cabiri mysteries now
suddenly took possession of Edna, as she looked wonderingly
at the shining façade of the exquisite Taj Mahal, and felt
that only a promise stood between her and its contents.

Escaping to her own room, she proceeded to secrete the
troublesome key, and to reflect upon the unexpected circumstances
which not only rendered it her duty to pray for
the wanderer, but necessitated her keeping always about

her a souvenir of the man whom she could not avoid detesting,
and was yet forced to remember continually.

On the following day, when she went to her usual morning
recitation, and gave the reason for her absence, she
noticed that Mr. Hammond's hand trembled, and a look of
keen sorrow settled on his face.

“Gone again! and so soon! So far, far away from all
good influences!”

He put down the Latin grammar and walked to the window,
where he stood for some time, and when he returned
to his arm-chair Edna saw that the muscles of his face were
unsteady.

“Did he not stop to tell you good-by?”

“No, my dear, he never comes to the parsonage now.
When he was a boy, I taught him here in this room, as I
now teach you. But for fifteen years he has not crossed my
threshold, and yet I never sleep until I have prayed for
him.”

“Oh! I am so glad to hear that! Now I know he will
be saved.”

The minister shook his gray head, and Edna saw tears
in his mild blue eyes as he answered:

“A man's repentance and faith can not be offered by
proxy to God. So long as St. Elmo Murray persists in insulting
his Maker, I shudder for his final end. He has the
finest intellect I have ever met among living men; but it is
unsanctified—worse still, it is dedicated to the work of
scoffing at and blaspheming the truths of religion. In his
youth he promised to prove a blessing to his race and an
ornament to Christianity; now he is a curse to the world
and a dreary burden to himself.”

“What changed him so sadly?”

“Some melancholy circumstances that occurred early in
his life. Edna, he planned and built that beautiful church
where you come on Sabbath to hear me preach, and about
the time it was finished he went off to college. When he

returned he avoided me, and has never yet been inside of
the costly church which his taste and his money constructed.
Still, while I live, I shall not sease to pray for him,
hoping that in God's own good time he will bring him back
to the pure faith of his boyhood.”

“Mr. Hammond, is he not a very wicked man?”

“He had originally the noblest heart I ever knew, and
was as tender in his sympathies as a woman, while he was
almost reckless in his munificent charities. But in his present
irreligious state I hear that he has grown bitter and
sour and illiberal. Yet, however repulsive his manner may
be, I can not believe that his nature is utterly perverted.
He is dissipated but not unprincipled. Let him rest, my
child, in the hands of his God, who alone can judge him.
We can but pray and hope. Go on with your lesson.”

The recitation was resumed and ended; but Edna was
well aware that for the first time her teacher was inattentive,
and the heavy sighs that passed his lips almost unconsciously
told her how sorely he was distressed by the erratic
course of his quondam pupil.

When she rose to go home she asked the name of the
author of the Family Prayers which she wished to purchase
for Mrs. Murray, and the pastor's face flushed with pleasure
as he heard of her cherished scheme.

“My dear child, be circumspect, be prudent; above all
things, be consistent. Search your own heart; try to make
your life an exposition of your faith; let profession and
practice go hand in hand; ask God's special guidance in
the difficult position in which you are placed, and your influence
for good in Mrs. Murray's family may be beyond
all computation.” Laying his hands on her head, he continued
tremulously: “O my God! if it be thy will, make
her the instrument of rescuing, ere it be indeed too late.
Help me to teach her aright; and let her pure life atone for
all the inconsistencies and wrongs that have well-nigh
wrought eternal ruin.”

Turning quickly away, he left the room before she could
even catch a glimpse of his countenance.

The strong and lasting affection that sprang up between
instructor and pupil—the sense of dependence on each
other's society—rarely occurs among persons in whose ages
so great a disparity exists. Spring and autumn have no
affinities—age has generally no sympathy for the gushing
sprightliness, the eager questioning, the rose-hued dreams
and aspirations of young people; and youth shrinks chilled
and constrained from the austere companionship of those
who, with snowy locks gilded by the fading rays of a setting
sun, totter down the hill of life, journeying to the dark and
silent valley of the shadow of death.

Preferring Mr. Hammond's society to that of the comparative
strangers who visited Mrs. Murray, Edna spent
half of her time at the quiet parsonage, and the remainder
with her books and music. That under auspices so favorable
her progress was almost unprecedentedly rapid, furnished
matter of surprise to no one who was capable of estimating
the results of native genius and vigorous application.
Mrs. Murray watched the expansion of her mind,
and the development of her beauty, with emotions of pride
and pleasure, which, had she analyzed them, would have
told her how dear and necessary to her happiness the orphan
had become.

As Edna's reasoning powers strengthened, Mr. Hammond
led her gradually to the contemplation of some of the gravest
problems that have from time immemorial perplexed
and maddened humanity, plunging one half into blind, bigoted
traditionalism, and scourging the other into the dreary,
sombre, starless wastes of Pyrrhonism. Knowing full well
that of every earnest soul and honest, profound thinker
these ontologic questions would sooner or later demand
audience, he wisely placed her in the philosophic palœstra,
encouraged her wrestlings, cheered her on, handed her
from time to time the instruments and aids she needed,

and then, when satisfied that the intellectual gymnastics
had properly trained and developed her, he invited her—
where he felt assured the spirit of the age would inevitably
drive her — to the great Pythian games of speculation,
where the lordly intellects of the nineteenth century gather
to test their ratiocinative skill, and bear off the crown of
bay on the point of a syllogism or the wings of an audacious
hypothesis.

Thus immersed in study, weeks, months, and years glided
by, bearing her young life swiftly across the Enna meads
of girlhood, nearer and nearer to the portals of that mystic
temple of womanhood, on whose fair fretted shrine was to
be offered a heart either consumed by the baleful fires of
Baal, or purified and consecrated by the Shekinah, promised
through Messiah.