University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. HAMMOND, are you ill? What can be the
matter?”

Edna threw down her books and put her
hand on the old man's shoulder. His face was
concealed in his arms, and his half-stifled groan told that
some fierce trial had overtaken him.

“O child! I am troubled, perplexed, and my heart is
heavy with a sorrow which I thought I had crushed.”

He raised his head for a moment, looked sadly into the
girl's face, and dropped his furrowed cheek on his hand.

“Has any thing happened since I saw you yesterday?”

“Yes; I have been surprised by the arrival of some of
my relatives, whose presence in my house revives very
painful associations connected with earlier years. My niece,
Mrs. Powell, and her daughter Gertrude, came very unexpectedly
last night to make me a visit of some length; and
to you, my child, I can frankly say the surprise is a painful
one. Many years have elapsed since I received any tidings
of Agnes Powell, and I knew not until she suddenly appeared
before me last night that she was a widow and bereft
of a handsome fortune. She claims a temporary home
under my roof; and though she has caused me much suffering,
I feel that I must endeavor to be patient and kind
to her and her child. I have endured many trials, but this
is the severest I have yet been called to pass through.”

Distressed by the look of anguish on his pale face, Edna

took his hand between both hers, and stroking it caressingly
said:

“My dear sir, if it is your duty, God will strengthen and
sustain you. Cheer up; I can't bear to see you looking so
troubled. A cloud on your face, my dear Mr. Hammond,
is to me like an eclipse of the sun. Pray do not keep me
in shadow.”

“If I could know that no mischief would result from
Agnes's presence, I would not regret it so earnestly. I do
not wish to be uncharitable or suspicious; but I fear that
her motives are not such as I could—”

“May I intrude, Uncle Allan?”

The stranger's voice was very sweet and winning, and as
she entered the room Edna could scarcely repress an exclamation
of admiration; for the world sees but rarely such
perfect beauty as was the portion of Agnes Powell.

She was one of those few women who seem the pets of
time, whose form and features catch some new grace and
charm from every passing year; and but for the tall, lovely
girl who clung to her hand and called her “mother,” a
stranger would have believed her only twenty-six or eight.

Fair, rosy, with a complexion fresh as a child's, and a face
faultless in contour as that of a Greek goddess, it was impossible
to resist the fascination which she exerted over all
who looked upon her. Her waving yellow hair flashed in
the morning sunshine, and as she raised one hand to shade
her large, clear, blue eyes, her open sleeve fell back, disclosing
an arm dazzlingly white and exquisitely moulded.
As Mr. Hammond introduced his pupil to his guests, Mrs.
Powell smiled pleasantly, and pressed the offered hand;
but the soft eyes, blue and cold as the stalactites of Capri,
scanned the orphan's countenance, and when Edna had seen
fully into their depths she could not avoid recalling Heine's
poem of the Loreley.

“My daughter Gertrude promises herself much pleasure
in your society, Miss Earl; for uncle's praises prepare her

to expect a most charming companion. She is about your
age, but I fear you will find great disparity in her attainments,
as she has not been so fortunate as to receive her
education from Uncle Allan. You are, I believe, an adopted
daughter of Mrs. Murray?”

“No, madam; only a resident in her house until my
education is pronounced sufficiently advanced to justify my
teaching.”

“I have a friend, (Miss Harding,) who has recently removed
to Le Bocage, and intends making it her home.
How is she?”

“Quite well, I believe.”

Mr. Hammond left the study for a moment, and Mrs.
Powell added:

“Her friends at the North tell me that she is to marry
her cousin, Mr. Murray, very soon.”

“I had not heard the report.”

“Then you think there are no grounds for the rumor?”

“Indeed, madam, I know nothing whatever concerning
the matter.”

“Estelle is handsome and brilliant.”

Edna made no reply; and after waiting a few seconds,
Mrs. Powell asked:

“Does Mr. Murray go much into society now?”

“I believe not.”

“Is he as handsome as ever?”

“I do not know when you saw him last, but the ladies
here seem rather to dread than admire him. Mrs. Powell,
you are dipping your sleeve into your uncle's inkstand.”

She by no means relished this catechism, and resolved to
end it. Picking up her books, she said to Mr. Hammond,
who now stood in the door:

“I presume I need not wait, as you will be too much occupied
to-day to attend to my lessons.”

“Yes; I must give you holiday until Monday.”

“Miss Earl, may I trouble you to hand this letter to Miss

Harding? It was intrusted to my care by one of her
friends in New-York. Pray be so good as to deliver it,
with my kindest regards.”

As Edna left the house, the pastor took his hat from the
rack in the hall, and walked silently beside her until she
reached the gate.

“Mr. Hammond, your niece is the most beautiful woman
I have ever seen.”

He sighed heavily and answered hesitatingly:

“Yes, yes. She is more beautiful now than when she
first grew up.”

“How long has she been a widow?”

“Not quite a year.”

The troubled expression settled once more over his placid
face, and when Edna bade him good morning, and had
walked some distance, she happened to look back, and saw
him still leaning on the little gate, under the drooping
honeysuckle tendrils, with his gray head bent down on his
hand.

That Mrs. Powell was in some way connected with Mr.
Murray's estrangement from the minister Edna felt assured,
and the curiosity which the inquiries of the former had
betrayed, told her that she must be guarded in her intercourse
with a woman who was an object of distrust even
to her own uncle.

Very often she had been tempted to ask Mr. Hammond
why Mr. Murray so sedulously shunned him; but the shadow
which fell upon his countenance whenever St. Elmo's name
was accidentally mentioned, made her shrink from alluding
to a subject which he evidently avoided discussing.

Before she had walked beyond the outskirts of the
village Mr. Leigh joined her, and she felt the color rise in
her cheeks as his fine eyes rested on her face and his hand
pressed hers. “You must forgive me for telling you how
bitterly I was disappointed in not seeing you two days
ago. Why did you absent yourself from the table?”

“Because I had no desire to meet Mrs. Murray's guests,
and preferred to spend my time with Mr. Hammond.”

“If he were not old enough to be your grandfather, I
believe I should be jealous of him. Edna, do not be offended,
I am so anxious about you—so pained at the change in your
appearance. Last Sunday as you sat in church I noticed
how very pale and worn you looked, and with what weariness
you leaned your head upon your hand. Mrs. Murray
says you are very well, but I know better. You are either
sick in body or mind; which is it?”

“Neither, Mr. Leigh. I am quite well, I assure you.”

“You are grieved about something, which you are unwilling
to confide to me. Edna, it is a keen pain that sometimes
brings that quiver to your lips, and if you would only
tell me! Edna, I know that I —”

“You conjure up a spectre. I have nothing to confide,
and there is no trouble which you can relieve.” They
walked on silently for a while, and then Gordon said:

“I am going away day after to-morrow, to be absent at
least for several months, and I have come to ask a favor
which you are too generous to deny. I want your ambrotype
or photograph, and I hope you will give it to me
without hesitation.”

“I have never had a likeness of any kind taken.”

“There is a good artist here; will you not go to-day and
have one taken for me?”

“No, Mr. Leigh.”

“O Edna! why not?”

“Because I do not wish you to think of or remember
me. The sooner you forget me entirely, save as a mere
friend, the happier we both shall be.”

“But that is impossible. If you withhold your picture it
will do no good, for I have your face here in my heart, and
you can not take that image from me.”

“At least I will not encourage feelings which can bring
only pain to me and disappointment to yourself. I consider

it unprincipled and contemptible in a woman to foster or
promote in any degree an affection which she knows she
can never reciprocate. If I had fifty photographs, I would
not give you one. My dear friend, let the past be forgotten;
it saddens me whenever I think of it, and is a barrier to all
pleasant friendly intercourse. Good-by, Mr. Leigh. You
have my best wishes on your journey.”

“Will you not allow me to see you home?”

“I think it is best—I prefer that you should not. Mr.
Leigh, promise me that you will struggle against this feeling,
which distresses me beyond expression.”

She turned and put out her hand. He shook his head
mournfully and said as he left her:

“God bless you! It will be a dreary, dreary season with
me till I return and see your face again. God preserve you
till then!”

Walking rapidly homeward, Edna wondered why she
could not return Gordon Leigh's affection—why his noble
face never haunted her dreams instead of another's — of
which she dreaded to think.

Looking rigorously into the past few weeks, she felt that
long before she was aware of the fact, an image to which
she refused homage, must have stood between her heart
and Gordon's.

When she reached home she inquired for Miss Harding,
and was informed that she and Mrs. Murray had gone visiting
with Mr. Allston; had taken lunch, and would not return
until late in the afternoon. Hagar told her that Mr.
Murray had started at daylight to one of his plantations
about twelve miles distant, and would not be back in time
for dinner; and rejoiced at the prospect of a quiet day, she
determined to complete the chapter which she had left unfinished
two nights previous.

Needing a reference in the book which Mr. Murray had
taken from the library, she went up to copy it; and as she
sat down in the sitting-room and opened the volume to

find the passage she required, a letter slipped out and fell
at her feet. She glanced at the envelope as she picked it
up, and her heart bounded painfully as she saw Mr. Murray's
name written in Mr. Manning's peculiar and unmistakable
chirography.

The postmark and date corresponded exactly with the
one that she had received the night Mr. Murray gave her
the roll of MS., and the strongest temptation of her life here
assailed her. She would almost have given her right hand
to know the contents of that letter, and Mr. Murray's confident
assertion concerning the package was now fully explained.
He had recognized the handwriting on her letters,
and suspected her ambitious scheme. He was not a stranger
to Mr. Manning, and must have known the nature of their
correspondence; consequently his taunt about a lover was
entirely ironical.

She turned the unsealed envelope over and over, longing
to know what it contained.

The house was deserted—there was, she knew, no human
being nearer than the kitchen, and no eye but God's upon
her. She looked once more at the superscription of the
letter, sighed, and put it back into the book without opening
the envelope.

She copied into her note-book the reference she was seeking,
and replacing the volume on the window-sill where
she had found it, went back to her own room and tried to
banish the subject of the letter from her mind.

After all, it was not probable that Mr. Murray had ever
mentioned her name to his correspondent; and as she had
not alluded to Le Bocage or its inmates in writing to Mr.
Manning, St. Elmo's hints concerning her MS. were merely
based on conjecture. She felt as if she would rather face
any other disaster sooner than have him scoffing at her
daring project; and more annoyed and puzzled than she
chose to confess, she resolutely bent her thoughts upon her
work.

It was almost dusk before Mrs. Murray and her guests
returned; and when it grew so dark that Edna could not
see the lines of her paper, she smoothed her hair, changed
her dress, and went down to the parlor.

Mrs. Murray was resting in a corner of the sofa, fanning
herself vigorously, and Mr. Allston smoked on the verandah
and talked to her through the open window.

“Well, Edna, where have you been all day?”

“With my books.”

“I am tired almost to death! This country visiting is
an intolerable bore! I am worn out with small talk and
backbiting. Society nowadays is composed of cannibals—
infinitely more to be dreaded than the Fijians—who only
devour the body and leave the character of an individual
intact. Child, let us have some music by way of variety.
Play that symphony of Beethoven that I heard you practising
last week.”

She laid her head on the arm of the sofa, and shut her
eyes, and Edna opened the piano and played the piece designated.

The delicacy of her touch enabled her to render it with
peculiar pathos and power; and she played on and on, unmindful
of Miss Harding's entrance—oblivious of every thing
but the sublime strains of the great master.

The light streamed over her face, and showed a gladness,
an exaltation of expression there, as if her soul had broken
from its earthly moorings, and was making its way joyfully
into the infinite sea of eternal love and blessedness.

At last her fingers fell from the keys, and as she rose
she saw Mr. Murray standing outside of the parlor-door,
with his fingers shading his eyes.

He came in soon after, and his mother held out her hand,
saying:

“Here is a seat, my son. Have you just returned?”

“No, I have been here some time.”

“How are affairs at the plantation?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Why? I thought you went there to-day?”

“I started; but found my horse so lame, that I went no
farther than town.”

“Indeed! Hagar told me you had not returned, when I
came in from visiting.”

“Like some other people of my acquaintance, Hagar
reckons without her host. I have been at home ever since
twelve o'clock, and saw the carriage as you drove off.”

“And pray how have you employed yourself, you incorrigible
ignis fatuus? O my cousin! you are well named.
Aunt Ellen must have had an intuitive insight into your
character when she had you christened St. Elmo; only she
should have added the `Fire—' How have you spent
the day, sir?”

“Most serenely and charmingly, my fair cousin, in the
solitude of my den. If my mother could give me satisfactory
security that all my days would prove as quiet and
happy as this has been, I would enter into bonds never to
quit the confines of Le Bocage again. Ah! the indescribable
relief of feeling that nothing was expected of me; that
the galling gyves of hospitality and etiquette were snapped,
and that I was entirely free from all danger of intrusion.
This day shall be marked with a white stone; for I entered
my rooms at twelve o'clock, and remained there in uninterrupted
peace till five minutes ago; when I put on my social
shackles once more, and hobbled down to entertain my
fair guest.”

Edna was arranging some sheets of music that were scattered
on the piano; but as he mentioned the hour of his return,
she remembered that the clock struck one just as she
went into the sitting-room where he kept his books and
cabinets; and she knew now that he was at that very time
in the inner room, beyond the arch. She put her hand to
her forehead, and endeavored to recollect the appearance of
the apartment. The silk curtains, she was sure, were hanging

over the arch; for she remembered distinctly having
noticed a large and very beautiful golden butterfly which
had fluttered in from the terrace, and was flitting over the
glowing folds that fell from the carved intrados to the marble
floor. But though screened from her view, he must
have heard and seen her, as she sat before his book-case,
turning his letter curiously between her fingers.

She dared not look up, and bent down to examine the
music, so absorbed in her own emotions of chagrin and
astonishment, that she heard not one word of what Miss
Harding was saying. She felt well assured that if Mr. Murray
were cognizant of her visit to the “Egyptian museum,”
he intended her to know it, and she knew that his countenance
would solve her painful doubt.

Gathering up her courage, she raised her eyes quickly, in
the direction of the sofa, where he had thrown himself, and
met just what she most dreaded, his keen gaze riveted on
her face. Evidently he had been waiting for this eager,
startled, questioning glance; for instantly he smiled, inclined
his head slightly, and arched his eyebrows, as if
much amused. Never before had she seen his face so
bright and happy, so free from bitterness. If he had said,
“Yes, I saw you; are you not thoroughly discomfited, and
ashamed of your idle curiosity? What interest can you
possibly have, in carefully studying the outside of my letters?
How do you propose to mend matters?”—he could
not have more fully conveyed his meaning. Edna's face
crimsoned, and she put up her hand to shield it; but Mr.
Murray turned toward the window, and coolly discussed
the merits of a popular race-horse, upon which Clinton
Allston lavished extravagant praise.

Estelle leaned against the window, listening to the controversy,
and after a time, when the subject seemed very
effectually settled by an oath from the master of the house,
Edna availed herself of the lull in the conversation, to deliver
the letter.

“Miss Harding, I was requested to hand you this.”

Estelle broke the seal, glanced rapidly over the letter, and
exclaimed:

“Is it possible? Can she be here? Who gave you this
letter?”

“Mrs. Powell, Mr. Hammond's niece.”

“Agnes Powell?”

“Yes. Agnes Powell.”

During the next three minutes one might have distinctly
heard a pin fall, for the ticking of two watches was very
audible.

Estelle glanced first at her cousin, then at her aunt, then
back at her cousin. Mrs. Murray involuntarily laid her
hand on her son's knee, and watched his face with an expression
of breathless anxiety; and Edna saw that, though
his lips blanched, not a muscle moved, not a nerve twitched;
and only the deadly hate, that appeared to leap into his
large shadowy eyes, told that the name stirred some bitter
memory.

The silence was growing intolerable when Mr. Murray
turned his gaze full on Estelle, and said in his usual sarcastic
tone:

“Have you seen a ghost? Your letter must contain tidings
of Victor's untimely demise; for, if there is such a thing
as retribution, such a personage as Nemesis, I swear that
poor devil of a Count has crept into her garments and come
to haunt you. Did he cut his white womanish throat with
a penknife, or smother himself with charcoal fumes, or light
a poisoned candle and let his poor homœopathic soul drift out
dreamily into eternity? If so, Gabriel will require a powerful
microscope to find him. Notwithstanding the fact that
you destined him for my cousin, the little curly creature
always impressed me as being a stray specimen of an otherwise
extinct type of intellectual Lacrymatoria. Is he really
dead? Peace to his infusorial soul! Who had the courage
to write and break the melancholy tidings to you? Or

perhaps, after all, it is only the ghost of your own conscience
that has brought that scared look into your face.”

She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

“How insanely jealous you are of Victor! He's neither
dead nor dreaming of suicide, but enjoying himself vastly
in Baden-Baden. Edna, did Mrs. Powell bring Gertrude
with her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how long she intends remaining at the
parsonage?”

“I think her visit is of indefinite duration.”

“Edna, will you oblige me by inquiring whether Henry
intends to give us any supper to-night? He forgets we have
had no dinner. St. Elmo, do turn down that gas—the wind
makes it flare dreadfully.”

Edna left the room to obey Mrs. Murray's command, and
did not return; but, after the party seated themselves at
the table, she noticed that the master seemed in unusually
high spirits; and when the meal was concluded, he challenged
his cousins to a game of billiards.

They repaired to the rotunda, and Mrs. Murray beckoned
to Edna to follow her. As they entered her apartment she
carefully closed the door.

“Edna, when did Mrs. Powell arrive?”

“Last night.”

“Did you see her?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Is she very pretty?”

“She is the most beautiful woman I ever met.”

“How did Mr. Hammond receive her?”

“Her visit evidently annoys him, but he gave me no
explanation of the matter, which I confess puzzles me. I
should suppose her society would cheer and interest him.”

“O pooh! Talk of what you understand. She surely
has not come here to live?”

“I think he fears she has. She is very poor.”

Mrs. Murray set her teeth together, and muttered something
which her companion did not understand.

“Edna, is she handsomer than Estelle?”

“Infinitely handsomer, I think. Indeed, they are so totally
unlike it would be impossible to compare them. Your
niece is very fine-looking, very commanding; Mrs. Powell
is exquisitely beautiful.”

“But she is no longer young. She has a grown daughter.”

“True; but in looking at her you do not realize it. Did
you never see her?”

“No; and I trust I never may! I am astonished that
Mr. Hammond can endure the sight of her. You say he
has told you nothing about her?”

“Nothing which explains the chagrin her presence seems
to cause.”

“He is very wise. But, Edna, avoid her society as much
as possible. She is doubtless very fascinating; but I do
not like what I have heard of her, and prefer that you
should have little conversation or intercourse with her.
On the whole, you might as well stay at home now; it is
very warm, and you can study without Mr. Hammond's assistance.”

“You do not mean that my visits must cease altogether?”

“Oh! no; go occasionally—once or twice a week—but
certainly not every day, as formerly. And, Edna, be careful
not to mention that woman's name again; I dislike her
exceedingly.”

The orphan longed to ask for an explanation, but was too
proud to solicit confidence so studiously withheld.

Mrs. Murray leaned back in her large rocking-chair and
fell into a reverie. Edna waited patiently for some time,
and finally rose.

“Mrs. Murray, have you any thing more to say to me to-night?
You look very much fatigued!”

“Nothing, I believe. Good-night, child. Send Hagar
to me.”

Edna went back to her desk and resolutely turned to her
work; for it was one of the peculiar traits of her character
that she could at will fasten her thoughts upon whatever
subject she desired to master. All irrelevant ideas were
sternly banished until such season as she chose to give them
audience; and to-night she tore her mind from the events of
the day, and diligently toiled among the fragments of Scandinavian
lore for the missing links in her mythologic chain.

Now and then peals of laughter from the billiard-room
startled her; and more than once Mr. Murray's clear, cold
voice rose above the subdued chatter of Estelle and Clinton.

After a while the game ended, good-nights were exchanged,
the party dispersed, doors were closed, and all
grew silent.

While Edna wrote on, an unexpected sound arrested her
pen. She listened, and heard the slow walk of a horse beneath
her window. As it passed she rose and looked out.
The moon was up, and Mr. Murray was riding down the
avenue.

The girl returned to her MS., and worked on without
intermission for another hour; then the last paragraph was
carefully punctuated, the long and difficult chapter was
finished. She laid aside her pen, and locked her desk.

Shaking down the mass of hair that had been tightly
coiled at the back of her head, she extinguished the light,
and drawing a chair to the window, seated herself.

Silence and peace brooded over the world; not a sound
broke the solemn repose of nature.

The summer breeze had rocked itself to rest in the elm
boughs, and only the waning moon seemed alive and toiling
as it climbed slowly up a cloudless sky, passing starry
sentinels whose nightly challenge was lost in vast vortices
of blue, as they paced their ceaseless round in the mighty
camp of constellations.

With her eyes fixed on the gloomy, groined archway of

elms, where an occasional slip of moonshine silvered the
ground, Edna watched and waited. The blood beat heavily
in her temples and throbbed sullenly at her heart; but she
sat mute and motionless as the summer night, reviewing all
that had occurred during the day.

Presently the distant sound of hoofs on the rocky road
leading to town fell upon her strained ear; the hard, quick
gallop ceased at the gate, and very slowly Mr. Murray
walked his horse up the dusky avenue, and on toward the
stable.

From the shadow of her muslin curtain, Edna looked
down on the walk beneath, and after a few moments saw
him coming to the house.

He paused on the terrace, took off his hat, swept back
the thick hair from his forehead, and stood looking out
over the quiet lawn.

Then a heavy, heavy sigh, almost a moan, seemed to
burst from the depths of his heart, and he turned and went
into the house.

The night was far spent, and the moon had cradled herself
on the tree-tops, when Edna raised her face all blistered
with tears. Stretching out her arms she fell on her knees,
while a passionate, sobbing prayer struggled brokenly
across her trembling lips:

“O my God! have mercy upon him! save his wretched
soul from eternal death! Help me so to live and govern
myself that I bring no shame on the cause of Christ. And
if it be thy will, O my God! grant that I may be instrumental
in winning this precious but wandering, sinful soul
back to the faith as it is in Jesus!”

Ah! verily—