University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

THE Greek myth concerning Demophoön embodies
a valuable truth, which the literary career of
Edna Earl was destined to exemplify. Harsh
critics like disguised Ceres plunged the young
author into the flames; and fortunately for her, as no short-sighted,
loving Metanira snatched her from the fiery ordeal,
she ultimately obtained the boon of immortality. Her regular
contributions to the magazine enhanced her reputation,
and broadened the sphere of her usefulness.

Profoundly impressed by the conviction that she held her
talent in trust, she worked steadily, looking neither to right
nor left, but keeping her eyes fixed upon that day when she
would be called to render an account to Him, who would
demand his own with interest. Instead of becoming
flushed with success, she grew daily more cautious, more
timid, lest inadvertence or haste should betray her into
errors. Consequently as the months rolled away, each
magazine article seemed an improvement on the last, and
lifted her higher in public favor. The blacksmith's grandchild
had become a power in society.

Feeling that a recluse life would give her only partial
glimpses of that humanity which she wished to study, she
moved in the circle of cultivated friends who now eagerly
stretched out their arms to receive her; and “keeping herself
unspotted from the world,” she earnestly scrutinized
social leprosy, and calmly watched the tendency of American
thought and feeling.

Among philosophic minds she saw an inclination to
ignore the noble principles of such systems as Sir William
Hamilton's, and to embrace the modified and subtle materialism
of Buckle and Mill, or the gross atheism of Büchner
and Moleschott. Positivism in philosophy and pre-Raphaclitism
in art, confronted her in the ranks of the literary;
lofty idealism seemed trodden down—pawed over by Carlyle's
“Monster Utilitaria.”

When she turned to the next social stratum she found
altars of mammon—groves of Bael, shining Schoe Dagon—
set up by business men and women of fashion. Society
appeared intent only upon reviving the Bhudagagna, or
offering to propitiate evil spirits; and sometimes it seemed
thickly sprinkled with very thinly disguised refugee Yezidees,
who, in the East, openly worship the devil.

Statesmen were almost extinct in America—a mere corporal's
guard remained, battling desperately to save the
stabbed constitution from the howling demagogues and
fanatics, who raved and ranted where Washington, Webster,
and Calhoun had once swayed a free and happy people.
Republicanism was in its death-throes, and would
soon be a dishonored and insulted ghost, hunted out of the
land by the steel bayonets of a centralized despotism. The
old venerated barriers and well-guarded outposts which
decorum and true womanly modesty had erected on the
frontiers of propriety, were swept away in the crevasse of
sans souci manners that threatened to inundate the entire
land; and latitudinarianism in dress and conversation was
rapidly reducing the sexes to an equality, dangerous to
morals and subversive of all chivalric respect for woman.

A double-faced idol, Fashion and Flirtation, engrossed
the homage of the majority of females, while a few misguided
ones, weary of the inanity of the mass of womanhood
and desiring to effect a reform, mistook the sources of
the evil, and, rushing to the opposite extreme, demanded
power, which, as a privilege, they already possessed, but as
a right could never extort.

A casual glance at the surface of society seemd to justify
Burke's conclusion, that “this earth is the bedlam of our
system;” but Edna looked deeper, and found much that
encouraged her, much that warmed and bound her sympathies
to her fellow-creatures. Instead of following the
beaten track she struck out a new path, and tried the plan
of denouncing the offence, not the offender; of attacking
the sin while she pitied the sinner.

Ruthlessly she assaulted the darling follies, the pet, velvet-masked
vices that society had adopted, and called the
reading world to a friendly parley; demanding that men
and women should pause and reflect in their mad career.
Because she was earnest and not bitter, because the white
banner of Christian charity floated over the conference
ground, because she showed so clearly that she loved the
race whose recklessness grieved her, because her rebukes
were free from scorn, and written rather in tears than gall,
people turned their heads and stopped to listen.

So it came to pass that finally, after toiling over many
obstacles, she reached the vine-clad valley of Eshcol.

Each day brought her noble fruitage, as letters came from
all regions of the country,asking for advice and assistance
in little trials of which the world knew nothing. Over the
young of her own sex she held a singular sway; and orphan
girls of all ranks and ages wrote of their respective
sorrows and difficulties, and requested her kind counsel.
To these her womanly heart turned yearningly; and she
accepted their affectionate confidence as an indication of
her proper circle of useful labor.

Believing that the intelligent, refined, modest Christian
women of the United States were the real custodians of
national purity, and the sole agents who could successfully
arrest the tide of demoralization breaking over the land,
she addressed herself to the wives, mothers, and daughters
of America; calling upon them to smite their false gods,
and purify the shrines at which they worshipped. Jealously

she contended for every woman's right which God and nature
had decreed the sex. The right to be learned, wise,
noble, useful, in woman's divinely limited sphere; the
right to influence and exalt the circle in which she moved;
the right to mount the sanctified bema of her own quiet
hearthstone; the right to modify and direct her husband's
opinions, if he considered her worthy and competent to
guide him; the right to make her children ornaments to
their nation, and a crown of glory to their race; the right
to advise, to plead, to pray; the right to make her desk a
Delphi, if God so permitted; the right to be all that the
phrase “noble, Christian woman” means. But not the
right to vote; to harangue from the hustings; to trail her
heaven-born purity through the dust and mire of political
strife; to ascend the rostra of statesmen, whither she may
send a worthy husband, son, or brother, but whither she
can never go, without disgracing all womanhood.

Edna was conscious of the influence she exerted, and
ceaselessly she prayed that she might wield it aright.
While aware of the prejudice that exists against literary
women, she endeavored to avoid the outré idiosyncrasies
that justly render so many of that class unpopular and
ridiculous.

She felt that she was a target at which all observers
aimed random shafts; and while devoting herself to study,
she endeavored to give due attention to the rules of etiquette,
and the harmonious laws of the toilette.

The friendship between Mr. Manning and herself
strengthened, as each learned more fully the character of
the other; and an affectionate, confiding frankness marked
their intercourse. As her popularity increased she turned
to him more frequently for advice, for success only rendered
her cautious; and day by day she weighed more
carefully all that fell from her pen, dreading lest some error
should creep into her writings and lead others astray.

In her publisher—an honorable, kind-hearted, and generous

gentleman—she found a valued friend; and as her
book sold extensively, the hope of a competency was realized,
and she was soon relieved from the necessity of teaching.
She was a pet with the reading public; it became
fashionable to lionize her; her pictures and autographs
were eagerly sought after; and the little, barefooted Tennessee
child had grown up to celebrity.

Sometimes when a basket of flowers, or a handsome
book, or a letter of thanks and cordial praise was received
from an unknown reader, the young author was so overwhelmed
with grateful appreciation of these little tokens
of kindness and affection, that she wept over them, or
prayed tremulously that she might render herself more
worthy of the good opinion entertained of her by strangers.

Mr. Manning, whose cold, searching eye was ever upon
her, could detect no exultation in her manner. She was
earnestly grateful for every kind word uttered by her friends
and admirers, for every favorable sentence penned about
her writings; but she seemed only gravely glad, and was
as little changed by praise as she had been by severe animadversion.
The sweet, patient expression still rested on
her face, and her beautiful eyes beamed with the steady
light of resignation rather than the starry sparkle of extravagant
joy.

Sometimes when the editor missed her at the literary reunions,
where her presence always contributed largely to
the enjoyment of the evening, and sought her in the school-room,
he was often surprised to find her seated beside Felix,
reading to him or listening to his conversation with a degree
of interest which she did not always offer to the celebrities
who visited her.

Her power over the cripple was boundless. His character
was as clay in her hands, and she was faithfully striving
to model a noble, hallowed life; for she believed that he
was destined to achieve distinction, and fondly hoped to

stamp upon his mind principles and aims that would fructify
abundantly when she was silent in the grave.

Mrs. Andrews often told her that she was the only person
who had ever controlled or influenced the boy—that
she could make him just what she pleased; and she devoted
herself to him, resolved to spare no toil in her efforts to correct
the evil tendencies of his strong, obstinate, stormy nature.

His fondness for history, and for all that involved theories
of government, led his governess to hope that at some
future day he might recruit the depleted ranks of statesmen
—that he might reflect lustre upon his country; and with
this trust spurring her ever on, she became more and more
absorbed in her schemes for developing his intellect, and
sanctifying his heart. People wondered how the lovely
woman, whom society flattered and fêted, could voluntarily
shut herself up in a school-room, and few understood the
sympathy which bound her so firmly to the broad-browed,
sallow little cripple.

One December day, several months after their return
from the sea-side, Edna and Felix sat in the library. The
boy had just completed Prescott's “Philip II.,” and the governess
had promised to read to him Schiller's “Don Carlos”
and Goethe's “Egmont,” in order to impress upon his
memory the great actors of the Netherland revolution.
She took up the copy of “Don Carlos,” and crossing his
arms on the top of his crutches, as was his habit, the pupil
fixed his eyes on her face.

The reading had continued probably a half-hour, when
Felix heard a whisper at the door, and, looking over his
shoulder, saw a stranger standing on the threshold. He
partially rose; the movement attracted the attention of the
governess, and, as she looked up, a cry of joy rang through
the room. She dropped the book and sprang forward with
open arms.

“O Mrs. Murray! dear friend!”

For some moments they stood locked in a warm embrace,
and as Felix limped out of the room he heard his governess
sobbing.

Mrs. Murray held the girl at arm's length, and as she
looked at the wan, thin face, she exclaimed:

“My poor Edna! my dear little girl! why did not you
tell me you were ill? You are a mere ghost of your former
self. My child, why did you not come home long ago?
I should have been here a month earlier, but was detained
by Estelle's marriage.”

Edna looked vacantly at her benefactress, and her lips
whitened as she asked:

“Did you say Estelle—was married?”

“Yes, my dear. She is now in New-York with her husband.
They are going to Paris—”

“She married your—” The head fell forward on Mrs.
Murray's bosom, and as in a dream she heard the answer:

“Estelle married that young Frenchman, Victor De Sanssure,
whom she met in Europe. Edna, what is the matter?
My child!”

She found that she could not rouse her, and in great
alarm called for assistance.

Mrs. Andrews promptly resorted to the remedies advised
by Dr. Howell; but it was long before Edna fully recovered,
and then she lay with her eyes closed, and her hands
clasped across her forehead.

Mrs. Murray sat beside the sofa weeping silently, while
Mrs. Andrews briefly acquainted her with the circumstances
attending former attacks. When the latter was summoned
from the room and all was quiet, Edna looked up at
Mrs. Murray, and tears rolled over her cheeks as she said:

“I was so glad to see you, the great joy and the surprise
overcame me. I am not as strong as I used to be in the old
happy days at Le Bocage, but after a little I shall be myself.
It is only occasionally that I have these attacks of
faintness. Put your hand on my forehead, as you did years

ago, and let me think that I am a little child again. Oh!
the unspeakable happiness of being with you once more!”

“Hush! do not talk now, you are not strong enough.”

Mrs. Murray kissed her, and tenderly smoothed the hair
back from her blue-veined temples, where the blood still
fluttered irregularly.

For some minutes the girl's eyes wandered eagerly over
her companion's countenance, tracing there the outlines of
another and far dearer face, and finding a resemblance between
mother and son which she had never noticed before.
Then she closed her eyes again, and a half smile curved
her trembling mouth, for the voice and the touch of the
hand seemed indeed Mr. Murray's.

“Edna, I shall never forgive you for not writing to me,
telling me frankly of your failing health.”

“Oh! scold me as much as you please. It is a luxury to
hear your voice even in reproof.”

“I knew mischief would come of this separation from
me. You belong to me, and I mean to have my own, and
take proper care of you in future. The idea of your working
yourself to a skeleton for the amusement of those who
care nothing about you is simply preposterous, and I intend
to put an end to such nonsense.”

“Mrs. Murray, why have you not mentioned Mr. Hammond?
I almost dread to ask about him.”

“Because you do not deserve to hear from him. A grateful
and affectionate pupil you have proved, to be sure. O Edna!
what has come over you, child? Are you so intoxicated with
your triumphs that you utterly forget your old friends, who
loved you when you were unknown to the world? At first
I thought so. I believed that you were heartless, like all
of your class, and completely wrapped up in ambitious
schemes. But, my little darling I see I wronged you
Your poor white face reproaches me for my injustice, and
I feel that success has not spoiled you; that you are still
my little Edna—my sweet child—my daughter. Be quiet

now, and listen to me, and try to keep that flutter out of
your lips. Mr. Hammond is no worse than he has been for
many months, but he is very feeble, and can not live much
longer. You know very well that he loves you tenderly,
and he says he can not die in peace without seeing you
once more. Every day, when I go over to the parsonage,
his first question is, `Ellen, is she coming?—have you
heard from her?' I wish you could have seen him when
St. Elmo was reading your book to him. It was the copy
you sent; and when we read aloud the joint dedication to
him and to myself, the old man wept, and asked for his
glasses, and tried to read it, but could not. He—”

Edna put out her hand with a mute gesture, which her
friend well understood, and she paused and was silent;
while the governess turned her face to the wall, and wept
softly, trying to compose herself.

Ten minutes passed, and she said: “Please go on now,
Mrs. Murray, and tell me all he said. You can have no
idea how I have longed to know what you all at home
thought of my little book. Oh! I have been so hungry for
home praise! I sent the very earliest copies to you and to
Mr. Hammond, and I thought it so hard that you never
mentioned them at all.”

“My dear, it was my fault, and I confess it freely. Mr.
Hammond, of course, could not write, but he trusted to me
to thank you in his name for the book and the dedication.
I was really angry with you for not coming home when I
wrote for you; and I was jealous of your book, and would
not praise it, because I knew you expected it. But because
I was silent, do you suppose I was not proud of my little
girl? If you could have seen the tears I shed over some
of the eulogies pronounced upon you, and heard all the
ugly words I could not avoid uttering against some of your
would-be critics, you could not doubt my thorough appreciation
of your success. My dear, it is impossible to describe
Mr. Hammond's delight, as we read your novel to him.

Often he would say: `St. Elmo, read that passage again,
I knew she was a gifted child, but I did not expect that she
would ever write such a book as this.' When we read the
last chapter he was completely overcome, and said, repeatedly,
`God bless my little Edna! It is a noble book, it
will do good—much good!' To me it seems almost incredible
that the popular author is the same little lame, crushed
orphan, whom I lifted from the grass at the railroad track,
seven years ago.”

Edna had risen, and was sitting on the edge of the sofa,
with one hand supporting her cheek, and a tender, glad
smile shining over her features, as she listened to the commendation
of those dearer than all the world beside. Mrs.
Murray watched her anxiously, and sighed as she continued:

“If ever a woman had a worshipper, you certainly possess
one in Huldah Reed. It would be amusing, if it were
not touching, to see her bending in ecstasy over every
thing you write; over every notice of you that meets her
eye. She regards you as her model in all respects. You
would be surprised at the rapidity with which she acquires
knowledge. She is a pet of St. Elmo's, and repays his care
and kindness with a devotion that makes people stare; for
you know my son is regarded as an ogre, and the child's
affection for him seems incomprehensible to those who only
see the rough surface of his character. She never saw a
frown on his face, or heard a harsh word from him, for he
is strangely tender in his treatment of the little thing.
Sometimes it makes me start when I hear her merry laugh
ringing through the house, for the sound carries me far back
into the past, when my own children romped and shouted
at Le Bocage. You were always a quiet, demure, and
rather solemn child; but this Huldah is a gay little sprite.
St. Elmo is so astonishingly patient with her, that Estelle
accuses him of being in his dotage. O Edna! it would
make you glad to see my son and that orphan child sitting
together, reading the Bible. Last week I found them in

the library; she was fast asleep with her head on his knee,
and he sat with his open Bible in his hand. He is so
changed in his manner that you would scarcely know him;
and oh! I am so happy and so grateful, I can never thank
God sufficiently for the blessing!”

Mrs. Murray sobbed, and Edna bent her own head lower
in her palms.

For some seconds both were silent. Mrs. Murray seated
herself close to the governess, and clasped her arms around
her.

“Edna, why did you not tell me all? Why did you
leave me to find out by accident that, which should have
been confided to me?”

The girl trembled, and a fiery spot burned on her cheeks
as she pressed her forehead against Mrs. Murray's bosom,
and said hastily:

“To what do you allude?”

“Why did you not tell me that my son loved you, and
wished to make you his wife? I never knew what passed
between you until about a month ago, and then I learned it
from Mr. Hammond. Although I wondered that St. Elmo
went as far as Chattanooga with you on your way North,
I did not suspect any special interest, for his manner betrayed
none when, after his return, he merely said that he
found no one on the train to whose care he could commit
you. Now I know all—know why you left `Le Bocage;'
and I know, too, that in God's hands you have been the
instrument of bringing St. Elmo back to his duty—to his
old noble self! O Edna, my child! if you could know
how I love and thank you! How I long to fold you in my
arms—so! and call you my daughter! Edna Murray—St.
Elmo's wife! Ah! how proud I shall be of my own daughter!
When I took a little bruised, moaning, homespun-clad
girl into my house, how little I dreamed that I was
sheltering unawares the angel who was to bring back happiness
to my son's heart, and peace to my own!”

She lifted the burning face, and kissed the quivering lips
repeatedly.

“Edna, my brave darling! how could you resist St.
Elmo's pleading? How could you tear yourself away from
him? Was it because you feared that I would not willingly
receive you as a daughter? Do not shiver so—answer
me.”

“Oh! do not ask me! Mrs. Murray spare me! This is
a subject which I can not discuss with you.”

“Why not, my child? Can you not trust the mother
of the man you love?”

Edna unwound the arms that clasped her, and rising,
walked away to the mantel-piece. Leaning heavily against it,
she stood for some time with her face averted, and beneath
the veil of long, floating hair Mrs. Murray saw the slight
figure sway to and fro, like a reed shaken by the breeze.

“Edna, I must talk to you about a matter which alone
brought me to New-York. My son's happiness is dearer
to me than my life, and I have come to plead with you, for
his sake if not for your own, at least to—”

“It is useless! Do not mention his name again! Oh!
Mrs. Murray! I am feeble to-day; spare me! Have mercy
on my weakness!”

She put out her hand appealingly, but in vain.

“One thing you must tell me. Why did you reject
him?”

Because I could not respect his character. Oh! forgive
me! You force me to say it—because I knew that he was
unworthy of any woman's confidence and affection.”

The mother's face flushed angrily, and she rose and threw
her head back with the haughty defiance peculiar to her
family.

“Edna Earl, how dare you speak to me in such terms of
my own son? There is not a woman on the face of the
broad earth who ought not to feel honored by his preference—who
might not be proud of his hand. What right

have you to pronounce him unworthy of trus? Answer
me!”

“The right to judge him from his own account of his
past life. The history which he gave me condemns him.
His crimes made me shrink from him.”

“Crimes! take care, Edna! You must be beside yourself!
My son is no criminal! He was unfortunate and
rash, but his impetuosity was certainly pardonable under
the circumstances.”

“All things are susceptible of palliation in a mother's
partial eyes,” answered the governess.

“St. Elmo fought a duel, and afterward carried on several
flirtations with women who were weak enough to
allow themselves to be trifled with; moreover, I shall not
deny that at one period of his life he was lamentably dissipated;
but all that happened long ago, before you knew him.
How many young gentlemen indulge in the same things,
and are never even reprimanded by society, much less denounced
as criminals? The world sanctions duelling and
flirting, and you have no right to set your extremely rigid
notions of propriety above the verdict of modern society.
Custom justifies many things which you seem to hold in
utter abhorrence. Take care that you do not find yourself
playing the Pharisee on the street corners.”

Mrs. Murray walked up and down the room twice, then
came to the hearth.

“Well, Edna, I am waiting to hear you.”

“There is nothing that I can say which would not wound
or displease you; therefore, dear Mrs. Murray, I must be
silent.”

“Retract the hasty words you uttered just now; they
expressed more than you intended.”

“I can not! I meant all I said. Offences against God's
law, which you consider pardonable—and which the world
winks at and permits, and even defends—I regard as grievous
sins. I believe that every man who kills another in a

duel deserves the curse of Cain, and should be shunned as
a murderer. My conscience assures me that a man who
can deliberately seek to gain a woman's heart merely to
gratify his vanity, or to wreak his hate by holding her up
to scorn, or trifling with the love which he has won, is unprincipled,
and should be ostracized by every true woman.
Were you the mother of Murray and Annie Hammond, do
you think you could so easily forgive their murderer?”

“Their father forgives and trusts my son, and you have
no right to sit in judgment upon him. Do you suppose
that you are holier than that white-haired saint whose
crown of glory is waiting for him in heaven? Are you so
much purer than Allan Hammond that you fear contamination
from one to whom he clings?”

“No—no—no! You wrong me. If you could know
how humble is my estimate of myself, you would not taunt
me so cruelly; you would only—pity me!”

The despairing agony in the orphan's voice touched Mrs.
Murray's proud heart, and tears softened the indignant expression
of her eyes, as she looked at the feeble form before
her.

“Edna, my poor child, you must trust me. One thing I
must know—I have a right to ask—do you not love my
son? You need not blush to acknowledge it to me.”

She waited awhile, but there was no reply, and softly her
arm stole around the girl's waist.

“My daughter, you need not be ashamed of your affection
for St. Elmo.”

Edna lifted her face from the low mantel, and clasping
her hands across her head, exclaimed:

“Do I love him? Oh! none but my God can ever know
how entirely my heart is his! I have struggled against his
fascination—oh! indeed I have wrestled and prayed against
it! But to-day—I do not deceive myself—I feel that I love
him as I can never love any other human being. You are
his mother, and you will pity me when I tell you that I fall

asleep praying for him—that in my dreams I am with him
once more—that the first thought on waking is still of him.
What do you suppose it cost me to give him up? Oh! is
it hard, think you, to live in the same world and yet never
look on his face, never hear his voice? God only knows
how hard! If he were dead, I could bear it better. But,
ah! to live with this great sea of silence between us—a
dreary, cold, mocking sea, crossed by no word, no whisper,
filled only with slowly, sadly-sailing ghosts of precious
memories! Yes, yes! Despite all his unworthiness—despite
the verdict of my judgment, and the upbraiding of my
conscience—I love him! I love him! You can sympathize
with me. Do not reproach me; pity me, oh! pity me in my
feebleness!”

She put out her arms like a weary child and dropped her
face on Mrs. Murray's shoulder.

“My child, if you had seen him the night before I left
home, you could not have resisted any longer the promptings
of your own heart. He told me all that had ever
passed between you; how he had watched and tempted
you; how devotedly he loved you; how he reverenced your
noble purity of character; how your influence, your example,
had first called him back to his early faith; and then he
covered his face and said, `Mother! mother! if God
would only give her to me, I could, I would be a better
man!' Edna, I feel as if my son's soul rested in your
hands! If you throw him off utterly, he may grow desperate,
and go back to his old habits of reckless dissipation
and blasphemy; and if he should! Oh! if he is lost at
last I will hold you accountable, and charge you before
God with his destruction! Edna, beware! You have a
strange power over him; you can make him almost what
you will. If you will not listen to your own suffering
heart, or to his love, hear me. Hear a mother pleading for
her son's eternal safety!”

The haughty woman fell on her knees before the orphan,

and wept, and Edna instantly knelt beside her and clung
to her.

“I pray for him continually. My latest breath shall be
a prayer for his salvation. His eternal welfare is almost
as precious to me as my own; for if I get to heaven at
last, do you suppose I could be happy even there without
him? But, Mrs. Murray, I can not be his wife. If he is
indeed conscientiously striving to atone for his past life, he
will be saved without my influence; and if his remorseful
convictions of duty do not reform him, his affection for me
would not accomplish it. Oh! of all mournful lots in life,
I think mine is the saddest! To find it impossible to tear
my heart from a man whom I distrust, whom I can not
honor, whose fascination I dread. I know my duty in this
matter—my conscience leaves me no room to doubt—and
from the resolution which I made in sight of Annie's grave,
I must not swerve. I have confessed to you how completely
my love belongs to him, how fruitless are my efforts
to forget him. I have told you what bitter suffering our
separation costs me, that you may know how useless it is
for you to urge me. Ah! if I can withstand the wailing
of my own lonely, aching heart, there is nothing else that
can draw me from the stern path of duty; no, no! not
even your entreaties, dear Mrs. Murray, much as I love
and owe you. God, who alone sees all, will help me to
bear my loneliness. He only can comfort and sustain me;
and in His own good time He will save Mr. Murray, and
send peace into his troubled soul. Until then let us pray
patiently.”

Flush and tremor had passed away, the features were
locked in rigid whiteness; and the unhappy mother saw
that further entreaty would indeed be but mockery.

She rose and paced the floor for some moments. At last
Edna said:

“How long will you remain in New-York?”

“Two days. Edna, I came here against my son's advice,

in opposition to his wishes, to intercede in his behalf and
prevail on you to go home with me. He knew you better
it seems than I did; for he predicted the result, and desired
to save me from mortification; but I obstinately
clung to the belief that you cherished some feelings of affectionate
gratitude toward me. You have undeceived me. Mr.
Hammond is eagerly expecting you, and it will be a keen
disappointment to the old man if I return without you. Is
it useless to tell you that you ought to go and see him?
You need not hesitate on St. Elmo's account; for unless
you wish to meet him, you will certainly not see him. My
son is too proud to thrust himself into the presence of any
one, much less into yours, Edna Earl.”

“I will go with you, Mrs. Murray, and remain at the
parsonage—at least for a few weeks.”

“I scarcely think Mr. Hammond will live until spring;
and it will make him very happy to have you in his home.”

Mrs. Murray wrapped her shawl around her and put on
her gloves.

“I shall be engaged with Estelle while I am here, and
shall not call again; but of course you will come to the
hotel to see her, and we will start homeward day after to-morrow
evening.”

She turned toward the door, but Edna caught her dress.

“Mrs. Murray, kiss me before you go, and tell me you
forgive the sorrow I am obliged to cause you to-day. My
burden is heavy enough without the weight of your displeasure.”

But the proud face did not relax; the mother shook her
head, disengaged her dress, and left the room.

An hour after Felix came in, and approaching the sofa
where his governess rested, said vehemently:

“Is it true, Edna? Are you going South with Mrs.
Murray?”

“Yes; I am going to see a dear friend who is probably
dying.”

“O Edna! what will become of me?”

“I shall be absent only a few weeks—

“I have a horrible dread that if you go you will never
come back! Don't leave me! Nobody needs you half as
much as I do. Edna, you said once you would never forsake
me. Remember your promise!”

“My dear little boy, I am not forsaking you; I shall
only be separated from you for a month or two; and it is
my duty to go to my sick friend. Do not look so wretched!
for just so surely as I live, I shall come back to you.”

“You think so now; but your old friends will persuade
you to stay, and you will forget me, and—and—”

He turned around and hid his face on the back of his
chair.

It was in vain that she endeavored, by promises and
caresses, to reconcile him to her temporary absence. He
would not be comforted; and his tear-stained, woe-begone,
sallow face, as she saw it on the evening of her departure,
pursued her on her journey South.