University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

WHILE your decision is inexpressibly painful to
me, I shall not attempt to dissuade you from a
resolution which I know has not been lightly
or hastily taken. But, ah my child! what
shall I do without you?”

Mr. Hammond's eyes filled with tears as he looked at his
pupil, and his hand trembled when he stroked her bowed
head.

“I dread the separation from you and Mrs. Murray; but
I know I ought to go; and I feel that when duty commands
me to follow a path, lonely and dreary though it
may seem, a light will be shed before my feet, and a staff
will be put into my hands. I have often wondered what
the Etrurians intended to personify in their Dii Involuti,
before whose awful decrees all other gods bowed. Now I
feel assured that the chief of the `Shrouded Gods' is Duty,
vailing her features with a silver-lined cloud, scorning to
parley, but whose unbending finger signs our way—an unerring
pillar of cloud by day, of fire by night. Mr. Hammond,
I shall follow that stern finger till the clods on my
coffin shut it from my sight.”

The August sun shining through the lilac and myrtle
boughs that rustled close to the study-window glinted over
the pure, pale face of the orphan, and showed a calm
mournfulness in the eyes which looked out at the quiet parsonage
garden, and far away to the waving lines against
the sky, where

Just beyond the low, ivy-wreathed stone wall that marked
the boundary of the garden ran a little stream, overhung
with alders and willows, under whose tremulous shadows
rested contented cattle — some knee-deep in water, some
browsing leisurely on purple-tufted clover. From the
wide, hot field, stretching away on the opposite side, came
the clear metallic ring of the scythes, as the mowers sharpened
them; the mellow whistle of the driver lying on top
of the huge hay mass, beneath which the oxen crawled toward
the lowered bars; and the sweet gurgling laughter
of two romping, sun-burned children, who swung on at
the back of the wagon.

Edna pointed to the peaceful picture, and said: “If Rosa
Bonheur could only put that on canvas for me, I would
hang it upon my walls in the great city whither I am going;
and when my weary days of work ended, I could sit
down before it, and fold my tired hands and look at it
through the mist of tears till its blessed calm stole into my
heart, and I believed myself once more with you, gazing
out of the study-window. Ah! blessed among all gifted
women is Rosa Bonheur! accounted worthy to wear what
other women may not aspire to—the Cross of the Legion
of Honor! Yesterday, when I read the description of
the visit of the Empress to the studio, I think I was almost
as proud and happy as that patient worker at the easel,
when over her shoulders was hung the ribbon which France
decrees only to the mighty souls who increase her glory,
and before whom she bows in reverent gratitude. I am
glad that a woman's hand laid that badge of immortality
on womanly shoulders — a crowned head crowning the
Queen of Artists. I wonder if, when obscure and in disguise,
she haunted the abattoir du Roule, and worked on
amid the lowing and bleating of the victims — I wonder if
faith prophesied of that distant day of glorious recompense,
when the ribbon of the Legion fluttered from Eugenie's
white fingers and she was exalted above all thrones? For

who would barter Rosa's ribbon for Eugenie's crown-jewels?
Some day, please God, I hope to be considered worthy
to stand in that studio, in the Rue d'Assas, and touch
Rosa Bonheur's pure hand, and tell her how often a poor
girl in America — a blacksmith's grandchild — has clapped
her hands and thanked God for the glory which she has
shed — not on France alone, but upon all womanhood.
Bonheur! blessing indeed! Ah Mr. Hammond! we all
wear our crosses, but they do not belong to the order of
the Legion of Honor.”

The minister inclosed in his own the hand which she had
laid on his knee, and said gently but gravely:

“My child, your ambition is your besetting sin. It is
Satan pointing to the tree of knowledge, tempting you to
eat and become `as gods.' Search your heart, and I fear
you will find that while you believe you are dedicating your
talent entirely to the service of God, there is a spring of
selfishness underlying all. You are too proud, too ambitious
of distinction, too eager to climb to some lofty
niche in the temple of fame, where your name, now unknown,
shall shine in the annals of literature and serve as
a beacon to encourage others equally as anxious for celebrity.
I was not surprised to see you in print; for long,
long ago, before you realized the extent of your mental
dowry, I saw the kindling of that ambitious spark whose
flame generally consumes the women in whose hearts it
burns. The history of literary females is not calculated to
allay the apprehension that oppresses me, as I watch you
just setting out on a career so fraught with trials of which
you have never dreamed. As a class, they are martyrs,
uncrowned and uncanonized; jeered at by the masses, sincerely
pitied by a few earnest souls, and wept over by the
relatives who really love them. Thousands of women have
toiled over books that proved millstones and drowned them
in the sea of letters. How many of the hundreds of female
writers scattered through the world in this century, will be

remembered six months after the coffin closes over their
weary, haggard faces? You may answer, `They made
their bread.' Ah child! it would have been sweeter if
earned at the wash-tub, or in the dairy, or by their needles.
It is the rough handling, the jars, the tension of her heart-strings
that sap the foundations of a woman's life, and consign
her to an early grave; and a Cherokee rose-hedge is
not more thickly set with thorns than a literary career with
grievous, vexatious, tormenting disappointments. If you
succeed after years of labor and anxiety and harassing fears,
you will become a target for envy and malice, and, possibly,
for slander. Your own sex will be jealous of your eminence,
considering your superiority as an insult to their
mediocrity; and mine will either ridicule or barely tolerate
you; for men detest female competitors in the Olympian
game of literature. If you fail, you will be sneered down
till you become imbittered, soured, misanthropic; a curse
to yourself, a burden to the friends who sympathize with
your blasted hopes. Edna, you have talent, you write well,
you are conscientious; but you are not De Staël, or Hannah
More, or Charlotte Brontë, or Elizabeth Browning; and I
shudder when I think of the disappointment that may overtake
all your eager aspirations. If I could be always near
you, I should indulge less apprehension for your future;
for I believe that I could help you to bear patiently whatever
is in store for you. But far away among strangers
you must struggle alone.”

“Mr. Hammond, I do not rely upon myself; my hope is
in God.”

“My child, the days of miraculous inspiration are
ended.”

“Ah! do not discourage me. When the Bishop of Noyon
hesitated to consecrate St. Radegund, she said to him,
`Thou wilt have to render thy account, and the Shepherd
will require of thee the souls of his sheep.' My dear sir,
your approbation is the consecration that I desire upon my

purpose. God will not forsake me; he will strengthen and
guide me and bless my writing, even as he blesses your
preaching. Because he gave you five talents and to me
only one, do you think that in the great day of reckoning
mine will not be required of me? I do not expect to `enter
into the joy of my Lord' as you will be worthy to do; but
with the blessing of God, I trust the doom of the alto
gether unprofitable servant will not be pronounced against
me.”

She had bowed her head till it rested on his knee, and
presently the old man put his hands upon the glossy hair
and murmured solemnly:

“And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,
shall keep your heart and mind through Christ Jesus.”

A brief silence reigned in the study, broken first by the
shout of the haymakers and the rippling laugh of the
children in the adjacent field, and then by the calm voice
of the pastor:

“I have offered you a home with me as long as I have a
roof that I can call my own; but you prefer to go to New-York,
and henceforth I shall never cease to pray that your
resolution may prove fortunate in all respects. You no
longer require my directions in your studies, but I will suggest
that it might be expedient for you to give more attention
to positive and less to abstract science. Remember
those noble words of Sir David Brewster, to which, I be
lieve, I have already called your attention, `If the God of
love is most appropriately worshiped in the Christian temple,
the God of nature may be equally honored in the temple
of science. Even from its lofty minarets the philosopher
may summon the faithful to prayer, and the priest and the
sage may exchange altars without the compromise of faith
or of knowledge.' Infidelity has shifted the battle-field
from metaphysics to physics, from idealism and rationalism
to positivism or rank materialism; and in order to combat
it successfully, in order to build up an imperishable system

of Christian teleology, it is necessary that you should thoroughly
acquaint yourself with the `natural sciences,' with
dynamics, and all the so-called `inherent forces in nature,'
or what Humboldt terms `primordial necessity.' This apotheosis
of dirt, by such men as Moleschott, Büchner, and
Vogt, is the real Antæus which, though continually overthrown,
springs from mother earth with renewed vigor;
and after a little while some Hercules of science will lift
the boaster in his inexorable arms and crush him.”

Here Mrs. Powell entered the room, and Edna rose and
tied on her hat.

“Mr. Hammond, will you go over to see Huldah this
afternoon? Poor little thing! she is in great distress about
her father.”

“I fear he can not live many days. I went to see him
yesterday morning, and would go again with you now, but
have promised to baptize two children this evening.”

Edna was opening the gate when Gertrude called to her
from a shaded corner of the yard, and turning, she saw her
playing with a fawn, about whose neck she had twined a
long spray of honeysuckle.

“Do come and see the beautiful present Mr. Murray sent
me several days ago. It is as gentle and playful as a kitten,
and seems to know me already.”

Gertrude patted the head of her pretty pet and continued:

“I have often read about gazelle's eyes, and I wonder if
these are not quite as lovely? Very often when I look at
them they remind me of yours. There is such a soft, sad,
patient expression, as if she knew perfectly well that some
day the hunters would be sure to catch her and kill her,
and she was meekly biding her time, to be turned into venison
steak. I never will eat another piece! The dear little
thing! Edna, do you know that you have the most beautiful
eyes in the world, except Mr. Murray's? His glitter
like great stars under long, long black silk fringe. By the

way, how is he? I have not seen him for some days and
you can have no idea how I do want to look into his face,
and hear his voice, which is so wonderfully sweet and low.
I wrote him a note thanking him for this little spotted darling;
but he has not answered it—has not come near me,
and I was afraid he might be sick.”

Gertrude stole one arm around her companion's neck,
and nestled her golden head against the orphan's shoulder.

“Mr. Murray is very well; at least, appears so. I saw
him at breakfast.”

“Does he ever talk about me?”

“No; I never heard him mention your name but once,
and then it occurred incidentally.”

“O Edna! is it wrong for me to think about him so constantly?
Don't press your lips together in that stern, hard
way. Dearie, put your arms around me, and kiss me. Oh!
if you could know how very much I love him! How happy
I am when he is with me. Edna, how can I help it? When
he touches my hand, and smiles down at me, I forget every
thing else! I feel as if I would follow him to the end of
the earth. He is a great deal older than I am; but how
can I remember that, when he is looking at me with those
wonderful eyes? The last time I saw him, he said—well,
something very sweet, and I was sure he loved me, and I
leaned my head against his shoulder; but he would not let
me touch him; he pushed me away with a terrible frown,
that wrinkled and blackened his face. Oh! it seems an age
since then.”

Edna kissed the lovely coral lips, and smoothed the bright
curls that the wind had blown about the exquisitely moulded
cheeks.

“Gertrude, when he asks you to love him, you will have
a right to indulge your affection; but until then you ought
not to allow him to know your feelings, or permit yourself
to think so entirely of him.”

“But do you believe it is wrong for me to love him so
much?”

“That is a question which your own heart must answer.”

Edna felt that her own lips were growing cold, and she
disengaged the girl's clasping arms.

“Edna, I know you love me; will you do something for
me? Please give him this note. I am afraid that he did
not receive the other, or that he is offended with me.”

She drew a dainty three-cornered envelope from her
pocket.

“No, Gertrude; I can be a party to no clandestine correspondence.
I have too much respect for your uncle, to
assist in smuggling letters in and out of his house. Beside,
your mother would not sanction the course you are pursuing.”

“Oh! I showed her the other note, and she only laughed,
and patted my cheek, and said, “Why, Mignonne! he is
old enough to be your father.” This note is only to find
out whether he received the other. I sent it by the servant
who brought this fawn—oh dear me! just see what a hole
the pretty little wretch has nibbled in my new Swiss muslin
dress! Won't mamma scold! There, do go away, pet
I will feed you presently. Indeed, Edna, there is no harm
in your taking the note, for I give you my word mamma
does not care. Do you think I would tell you a story?
Please, Edna. It will reach him so much sooner if you
carry it over, than if I were to drop it into the post-office,
where it may stay for a week; and Uncle Allan has no extra
servants to run around on errands for me.”

“Gertrude, are you not deceiving me? Are you sure
your mother read the other note and sanctions this?”

“Certainly; you may ask her if you doubt me. There!
I must hurry in; mamma is calling me. Dear Edna, if you
love me! Yes, mamma, I am coming.”

Edna could not resist the pleading of the lovely face

pressed close to hers, and with a sigh she took the tiny note
and turned away.

More than a week had elapsed since Mr. Hammond and
Mrs. Powell had written, recommending her for the situation
in Mrs. Andrews's family; and with feverish impatience
she awaited the result. During this interval she had
not exchanged a word with Mr. Murray—had spent much
of her time in writing down in her note-book such references
from the library, as she required in her MS.; and while
Estelle seemed unusually high-spirited, Mrs. Murray watched
in silence the orphan's preparations for departure.

Absorbed in very painful reflections, the girl walked on
rapidly till she reached the cheerless home of the blacksmith,
and knocked at the door.

“Come in, Mr. Murray.”

Edna pushed open the door and walked in.

“It is not Mr. Murray, this time.”

“O Edna! I am so glad you happened to come. He
would not let me tell you; he said he did not wish it known.
But now you are here, you will stay with me, won't you,
till it is over?”

Huldah was kneeling at the side of her father's cot, and
Edna was startled by the look of eager, breathless anxiety,
printed on her white, trembling face.

“What does she mean, Mr. Reed?”

“Poor little lamb, she is so excited she can hardly speak,
and I am not strong enough to talk much. Huldah, daughter,
tell Miss Edna all about it.”

“Mr. Murray heard all I said to you about praying to
have my eyes opened, and he went to town that same evening,
and telegraphed to some doctor in Philadelphia, who
cures blindness, to come on and see if he could do any thing
for my eyes. Mr. Murray was here this morning, and said
he had heard from the doctor, and that he would come this
afternoon. He said he could only stay till the cars left
for Chattanooga, as he must go back at once. You know

he—hush! There! there! I hear the carriage, now,
O Edna! pray for me! Pa, pray for my poor eyes!”

The sweet childish face was colorless, and tears filled
the filmy hazel eyes as Huldah clasped her hands. Her
lips moved rapidly, though no sound was audible.

Edna stepped behind the door and peeped through a
chink in the planks.

Mr. Murray entered first and beckoned to the stranger,
who paused at the threshold, with a case of instruments in
his hand.

“Come in, Hugh; here is your patient, very much frightened,
too, I am afraid. Huldah, come to the light.”

He drew her to the window, lifted her to a chair, and the
doctor bent down, pushed back his spectacles, and cautiously
examined the child's eyes.

“Don't tremble so, Huldah; there is nothing to be afraid
of. The doctor will not hurt you.”

“Oh! it is not that I fear to be hurt! Edna, are you
praying for me?”

“Edna is not here,” answered Mr. Murray, glancing
round the room.

“Yes, she is here. I did not tell her, but she happened
to come a little while ago. Edna, won't you hold one of
my hands? O Edna! Edna!”

Reluctantly the orphan came forward, and, without lifting
her eyes, took one of the little outstretched hands firmly in
both her own. While Mr. Murray silently appropriated
the other, Huldah whispered:

“Please, both of you pray for me.”

The doctor raised the eyelids several times, peered long
and curiously at the eyeballs, and opened his case of instruments.

“This is one of those instances of congenital cataract
which might have been relieved long ago. A slight operation
will remove the difficulty. St. Elmo, you asked me
about the probability of an instantaneous restoration, and

I had begun to tell you about that case which Wardrop
mentions of a woman blind from her birth till she was
forty-six years of age. She could not distinguish objects
for several days.... ”

“O sir! will I see? Will I see my father?” Her fingers
closed spasmodically over those that clasped them, and the
agonizing suspense written in her countenance was pitiable
to contemplate.

“Yes, my dear, I hope so—I think so. You know, Murray,
the eye has to be trained; but Haller mentions a case
of a nobleman who saw distinctly at various distances, immediately
after the cataract was removed from the axis of
vision. Now my little girl, hold just as still as possible.
I shall not hurt you.”

Skilfully he cut through the membrane and drew it down,
then held his hat between her eyes and the light streaming
through the window.

Some seconds elapsed and suddenly a cry broke from the
child's lips.

“Oh! something shines! there is a light, I believe!”

Mr. Murray threw his handkerchief over her head, caught
her in his arms and placed her on the side of the cot.

“The first face her eyes ever look upon, shall be that
which she loves best—her father's.”

As he withdrew the handkerchief Mr. Reed feebly raised
his arms toward his child, and whispered:

“My little Huldah—my daughter, can you see me?”

She stooped, put her face close to his, swept her small
fingers repeatedly over the emaciated features, to convince
herself of the identity of the new sensation of sight with
the old and reliable sense of touch; then she threw her
head back with a wild laugh, a scream of delight.

“Oh! I see! Thank God I see my father's face! My dear
pa! my own dear pa!”

For some moments she hung over the sufferer kissing
him, murmuring brokenly her happy, tender words, and
now and then resorting to the old sense of touch.

While Edna wiped away tears of joyful sympathy which
she strove in vain to restrain, she glanced at Mr. Murray,
and wondered how he could stand there watching the scene
with such bright, dry eyes.

Seeming suddenly to remember that there were other
countenances in the world beside that tear-stained one on
the pillow, Huldah slipped down from the cot, turned toward
the group, and shaded her eyes with her fingers.

“O Edna! an't you glad for me? Where are you? I
knew Jesus would hear me. `What things soever ye desire,
when ye pray believe that ye receive them, and ye shall
have them.' I did believe, and I see! I see! I prayed
that God would send down some angel to touch my eyes,
and He sent Mr. Murray and the doctor.”

After a pause, during which the oculist prepared some
bandages, Huldah added:

“Which one is Mr. Murray? Will you, please, come to
me? My ears and my fingers know you, but my eyes
don't.”

He stepped forward and putting out her hands she grasped
his, and turned her untutored eyes upon him. Before he
could suspect her design she fell at his feet, threw her arms
around his knees, and exclaimed:

“How good you are! How shall I ever thank you
enough? How good.” She clung to him and sobbed hysterically.

Edna saw him lift her from the floor and put her back
beside her father, while the doctor bandaged her eyes; and
waiting to hear no more, the orphan glided away and hurried
along the road.

Ere she had proceeded far, she heard the quick trot of the
horses, the roll of the carriage. Leaning out as they overtook
her, Mr. Murray directed the driver to stop, and
swinging open the door, he stepped out and approached her.

“The doctor dines at Le Bocage; will you take a seat
with us, or do you, as usual, prefer to walk alone?”

“Thank you, sir; I am not going home now. I shall
walk on.”

He bowed, and was turning away, but she drew the delicately
perfumed envelope from her pocket.

“Mr. Murray, I was requested by the writer to hand you
this note, as she feared its predecessor was lost by the servant
to whom she intrusted it.”

He took it, glanced at the small, cramped, school-girlish
handwriting, smiled, and thrust it into his vest-pocket,
saying in a low earnest tone:

“This is, indeed, a joyful surprise. You are certainly
more reliable than Henry. Accept my cordial thanks, which
I have not time to reiterate. I generally prefer to owe my
happiness entirely to Gertrude; but in this instance I can
bear to receive it through the medium of your hands. As
you are so prompt and trusty, I may trouble you to carry
my answer.”

The carriage rolled on, leaving a cloud of dust which the
evening sunshine converted into a glittering track of glory,
and seating herself on a grassy bank, Edna leaned her head
against the body of a tree; and all the glory passed swiftly
away, and she was alone in the dust.

As the sun went down, the pillared forest aisles stretching
westward filled first with golden haze, then glowed with
a light redder than Phthiotan wine poured from the burning
beaker of the sun; and only the mournful cooing of
doves broke the solemn silence as the pine organ whispered
its low coranach for the dead day; and the cool shadow of
coming night crept, purple-mantled, velvet-sandaled, down
the forest glades.

“Oh! if I had gone away a week ago! before I knew
there was any redeeming charity in his sinful nature! If I
could only despise him utterly, it would be so much easier
to forget him. Ah! God pity me! God help me! What
right have I to think of Gertrude's lover—Gertrude's husband!
I ought to be glad that he is nobler than I thought,

but I am not! Oh! I am not! I wish I had never known
the good that he has done. O Edna Earl! has it come to
this? has it come to this? How I despise—how I hate myself!”

Rising, she shook back her thick hair, passed her hands
over her hot temples, and stood listening to the distant
whistle of a partridge—to the plaint of the lonely dove
nestled among the pine boughs high above her; and gradually
a holy calm stole over her face, fixing it as the
merciful touch of death stills features that have long writhed
in mortal agony. Into her struggling heart entered a
strength which comes only when weary, wrestling, honest
souls turn from human sympathy, seek the hallowed cloisters
of Nature, and are folded tenderly in the loving arms
of Mother Cybele, who `never did betray the heart that
loved her.'

To her dewy altars among the mountains of Gilead fled
Jephthah's daughter, in the days when she sought for
strength to fulfil her father's battle-vow; and into her pitying
starry eyes looked stricken Rizpah, from those dreary
rocks where love held faithful vigil, guarding the bleaching
bones of her darling dead, sacrificed for the sins of Saul.