University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

THEY have come. I hear Gertrude's birdish voice.”

The words had scarcely passed Mr. Hammond's
lips ere his niece bounded into the room,
followed by her husband.

Edna was sitting on the chintz-covered lounge, mending
a basketful of the old man's clothes that needed numerous
stitches and buttons, and, throwing aside her sewing materials,
she rose to meet the travellers.

At sight of her Gordon Leigh stopped suddenly, and his
face grew instantly as bloodless as her own.

“Edna! Oh! how changed! What a wreck!”

He grasped her outstretched hand, folded it in his, which
trembled violently, and a look of anguish mastered his features,
as his eyes searched her calm countenance.

“I did not think it would come so soon. Passing away
in the early morning of your life! O my pure, broken
lily!”

He did not seem to heed his wife's presence, until she
threw her arms around Edna, exclaiming:

“Get away, Gordon! I want her all to myself. Why,
you pale darling! What a starved ghost you are! Not
half as substantial as my shadow, is she, Gordon? O Edna!
how I have longed to see you, to tell you how I enjoyed
your dear, delightful, grand, noble book! To tell you what
a great woman I think you are; and how proud of you I
am. A gentleman who came over in the steamer with us,
asked me how much you paid me per annum to puff you

He was a miserable old cynic of a bachelor, ridiculed all
women unmercifully, and at last I told him I would bet
both my ears that the reason he was so bearish and hateful,
was because some pretty girl had flirted with him outrageously.
He turned up his ugly nose especially at `blue
stockings;' said all literary women were `hopeless pedants
and slatterns,' and quoted that abominable Horace Walpole's
account of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's `dirt and vivacity.'
I really thought Gordon would throw him overboard.
I wonder what he would say if he could see you darning
Uncle Allan's socks. O Edna, dearie! I am sorry to find
you looking so pale.”

All this was uttered interjectionally between vigorous
hugs and warm, tender kisses, and as Gertrude threw her
bonnet and wrappings on the lounge, she continued:

“I wished for you just exactly ten thousand times while
I was abroad, there were so many things that you could
have described so beautifully. Gordon, don't Edna's eyes
remind you very much of that divine picture of the Madonna
at Dresden?”

She looked round for an answer, but her husband had
left the room, and, recollecting a parcel that had been
stowed away in the pocket of the carriage, she ran out to
get it.

Presently she reäppeared at the door, with a goblet in
her hand.

“Uncle Allan, who carries the keys now?”

“Edna. What will you have, my dear?”

“I want some brandy. Gordon looks very pale, and
complains of not feeling well, so I intend to make him a
mint-julep. Ah Edna! These husbands are such troublesome
creatures.”

She left the room jingling the bunch of keys, and a few
moments after they heard her humming an air from “Rigoletto,”
as she bent over the mint-bed, under the study-window.

Mr. Hammond, who had observed all that passed, and
saw the earnest distress clouding the orphan's brow, said
gravely:

“She has not changed an iota; she never will be anything
more than a beautiful, merry child, and is a mere
pretty pet, not a companion in the true sense of the word.
She is not quick-witted, or she would discern a melancholy
truth that might overshadow all her life. Unless Gordon
learns more self-control, he will ere long betray himself. I
expostulated with him before his marriage, but for once he
threw my warning to the winds. I am an old man, and
have seen many phases of human nature, and watched the
development of many characters; and I have found that
these pique marriages are always mournful—always disastrous.
In such instances I would with more pleasure officiate
at the grave than at the altar. Once Estelle and Agnes
persuaded me that St. Elmo was about to wreck himself on
this rock of ruin, and even his mother's manner led me to
believe that he would marry his cousin; but, thank God!
he was wiser than I feared.”

“Mr. Hammond, are you sure that Gertrude loves Mr.
Leigh?”

“Oh! yes, my dear! Of that fact there can be no doubt.
Why do you question it?”

“She told me once that Mr. Murray had won her heart.”

It was the first time Edna had mentioned his name since
her return, and it brought a faint flush to her cheeks.

“That was a childish whim which she has utterly forgotten.
A woman of her temperament never remains attached
to a man from whom she is long separated. I do
not suppose that she remembered St. Elmo a month, after
she ceased to meet him. I feel assured that she loves Gordon
as well as she can love any one. She is a remarkably
sweet-tempered, unselfish, gladsome woman, but is not
capable of very deep, lasting feeling.”

“I will go away at once. This is Saturday, and I will

start to New-York early Monday morning. Mr Leigh is
weaker than I ever imagined he could be.”

The outline of her mouth hardened, and into her eyes
crept an expression of scorn, that very rarely found a harbor
there.

“Yes, my dear; although it grieves me to part with
you, I know it is best that you should not be here, at least
for the present. Agnes is visiting friends at the North,
and when she returns, Gordon and Gertrude will remove to
their new house. Then Edna, if I feel that I need you, if I
write for you, will you not come back to me? Dear child,
I want your face to be the last I look upon in this world.”

She drew the pastor's shrunken hand to her lips, and
shook her head.

“Do not ask me to do that which my strength will not
permit. There are many reasons why I ought not to come
here again; and moreover, my work calls me hence, to a
distant field. My physical strength seems to be ebbing fast,
and my vines are not all purple with mellow fruit. Some
clusters, thank God! are fragrant, ripe, and ready for the
wine-press, when the Angel of the Vintage comes to gather
them in; but my work is only half done. Not until my
fingers clasp white flowers under a pall, shall it be said of
me, `Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of
the hands to sleep.' In cœlo quies! The German idea of
death is to me peculiarly comforting and touching, `Heimgang'—
going home. Ah sir! humanity ought to be home-sick;
and in thinking of that mansion beyond the starpaved
pathway of the sky, whither Jesus has gone to prepare
our places, we children of earth should, like the Swiss,
never lose our home-sickness. Our bodies are of the dust—
dusty, and bend dustward; but our souls floated down from
the sardonyx walls of the Everlasting City, and brought
with them a yearning maladie du pays, which should help
them to struggle back. Sometimes I am tempted to believe
that the joys of this world are the true lotos, devouring

which, mankind glory in exile, and forget the Heimgang.
It is mournfully true that—
Oh! indeed, `here we have no continuing city, but seek
one to come.' Heimgang! Thank God! going home for
ever!”

The splendor of the large eyes seemed almost unearthly,
as she looked out over the fields, where in summers past
the shout of the merry reapers rose like the songs of Greek
harvesters to Demeter? Nay, nay, as a hymn of gratitude
and praise to Him who `feedeth the fowls of the air,' and
maketh the universe a vast Sarepta, in which the cruse
never faileth the prophets of God. Edna sat silent for
some time, with her slender hands folded on her lap, and
the pastor heard her softly repeating, as if to her own soul,
those noble lines on “Life:”

Several hours later, when Mr. Leigh returned to the
study, he found Edna singing some of the minister's favorite
Scotch ballads; while Gertrude rested on the lounge,
half propped on her elbow, and leaning forward to dangle
the cord and tassel of her robe de chambre within reach of
an energetic little blue-eyed kitten, which, with its paws in
the air, rolled on the carpet, catching at the silken toy.

The governess left the piano, and resumed her mending of
the contents of the clothes-basket.

In answer to some inquiries of Mr. Hammond, Mr. Leigh
gave a brief account of his travels in Southern Europe;
but his manner was constrained, his thoughts evidently
preöccupied. Once his eyes wandered to the round, rosy,
dimpling face of his exquisitely beautiful child-wife, and he
frowned, bit his lip, and sighed; while his gaze, earnest and
mournfully anxious, returned and dwelt upon the weary
but serene and noble countenance of the orphan.

In the conversation, which had turned accidentally upon
philology and the MSS. of the Vatican, Gertrude took no
part; now and then glancing up at the speakers, she continued
her romp with the kitten. At length, tired of her
frolicsome pet, she rose with a partially suppressed yawn,
and sauntered up to her husband's chair. Softly and lovingly
her pretty little pink palms were passed over her husband's
darkened brow, and her fingers drew his hair now
on one side, now on the other, while she peeped over his
shoulder to watch the effect of the arrangement.

The caresses were inopportune, her touch annoyed him.
He shook it off, and, stretching out his arm, put her gently
but firmly away, saying, coldly:

“There is a chair, Gertrude.”

Edna's eyes looked steadily into his, with an expression
of grave, sorrowful reproof—of expostulation; and the flush
deepened on his face as his eyes fell before her rebuking
gaze.

Perhaps the young wife had become accustomed to such
rebuffs; at all events she evinced neither mortification nor
surprise, but twirled her silk tassel vigorously around her
finger, and exclaimed:

“O Gordon! have you not forgotten to give Edna that
letter, written by the gentleman we met at Palermo?
Edna, he paid your book some splendid compliments. I
fairly clapped my hands at his praises—didn't I, Gordon?”

Mr. Leigh drew a letter from the inside pocket of his
coat, and, as he gave it to the orphan, said with a touch of
bitterness in his tone:

“Pardon my negligence; probably you will find little
news in it, as he is one of your old victims, and you can
guess its contents.”

The letter was from Sir Roger; and while he expressed
great grief at hearing, through Mr. Manning's notes, that
her health was seriously impaired, he renewed the offer of
his hand, and asked permission to come and plead his suit
in person.

As Edna hurriedly glanced over the pages, and put them
in her pocket, Gertrude said gayly, “Shame on you,
Gordon! Do you mean to say, or, rather to insinuate, that
all who read Edna's book are victimized?”

He looked at her from under thickening eyebrows, and
replied with undisguised impatience:

“No; your common-sense ought to teach you that such
was not my meaning or intention. Edna places no such interpretation
on my words.”

“Common-sense! O Gordon, dearie! how unreasonable
you are! Why, you have told me a thousand times that
I had not a particle of common-sense, except on the subject
of juleps; and how, then, in the name of wonder, can
you expect me to show any? I never pretended to be a
great shining genius like Edna, whose writings all the
world is talking about. I only want to be wise enough to
understand you, dearie, and make you happy. Gordon,
don't you feel any better? What makes your face so red?”

She went back to his chair, and leaned her lovely head
close to his, while an anxious expression filled her large
blue eyes.

Gordon Leigh realized that his marriage was a terrible
mistake, which only death could rectify; but even in his
wretchedness he was just, blaming only himself—exonerating
his wife. Had he not wooed the love of which, already,

he was weary? Having deceived her at the altar, was
there justification for his dropping the mask at the hearth-stone?
Nay, the skeleton must be thrust out of sight, hermetically
sealed; there should be no rattling of skull and
cross-bones to freeze the blood in the sweet laughing face
of the trusting bride.

Now her clinging tenderness, her affectionate humility,
upbraided him as no harsh words could possibly have done.
With a smothered sigh he passed his arm around her, and
drew her closer to his side.

“At least my little wife is wise enough to teach her husband
to be ashamed of his petulance.”

“And quite wise enough, dear Gertrude, to make him
very proud and happy; for you ought to be able to say with
the sweetest singer in all merry England:

As Edna glanced at the young wife and uttered these
words, a mist gathered in her own eyes, and collecting her
sewing utensils she went to her room to pack her trunk.

During her stay at the parsonage she had not attended
service in the church, because Mr. Hammond was lonely,
and her Sabbaths were spent in reading to him. But her
old associates in the choir insisted that, before she returned
to New-York, she should sing with them once more.

Thus far she had declined all invitations; but on the
morning of the last day of her visit, the organist called to
say that a distinguished divine, from a distant State, would
fill Mr. Hammond's pulpit; and as the best and leading soprano
in the choir was disabled by severe cold, and could
not be present, he begged that Edna would take her place,
and sing a certain solo in the music which he had selected
for an opening piece. Mr. Hammond, who was pardonably

proud of his choir, was anxious that the stranger should be
greeted and inspired by fine music, and urged Edna's compliance
with the request.

Reluctantly she consented, and for the first time Duty and
Love seemed to signal a truce, to shake hands over the preliminaries
of a treaty for peace.

As she passed through the churchyard and ascended the
steps, where a group of Sabbath-school children sat talking,
her eyes involuntarily sought the dull brown spot on the
marble.

Over it little Herbert Inge had spread his white handkerchief,
and piled thereon his Testament and catechism, laying
on the last one, of those gilt-bordered and handsome pictorial
cards, containing a verse from the Scriptures, which
are frequently distributed by Sabbath-school teachers.

Edna stooped and looked at the picture covering the
blood-stain. It represented our Saviour on the Mount, delivering
the sermon, and in golden letters were printed his
words:

“Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what
judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what
measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

The eyes of the Divine Preacher seemed to look into
hers, and the outstretched hand to point directly at her.

She trembled, and hastily kissing the sweet red lips
which little Herbert held up to her, she went in and up to
the gallery.

The congregation assembled slowly; and as almost all
the faces were familiar to Edna, each arrival revived some
reminiscence of the past. Here the flashing silk flounces
of a young belle brushed the straight black folds of widow's
weeds; on the back of one seat was stretched the rough
brown hand of a poor, laboring man; on the next lay the
dainty fingers of a matron of wealth and fashion, who had
entirely forgotten to draw a glove over her sparkling diamonds.

In all the splendor of velvet, feathers, and sea-green
moire, Mrs. Montgomery sailed proudly into her pew, con
voying her daughter Maud, who was smiling and whisper
ing to her escort; and just behind them came a plainly-clad
but happy young mechanic, a carpenter, clasping to
his warm, honest heart the arm of his sweet-faced, gentle
wife, and holding the hand of his rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed,
three-year-old boy, who toddled along, staring at the brilliant
pictures on the windows.

When Mr. Leigh and Gertrude entered there was a general
stir, a lifting of heads and twisting of necks, in order
to ascertain what new styles of bonnet, lace, and mantle
prevailed in Paris.

A moment after, Mrs. Murray walked slowly down the
aisle, and Edna's heart seemed to stand still as she saw Mr.
Murray's powerful form. He stepped forward, and while
he opened the door of the pew, and waited for his mother
to seat herself, his face was partially visible; then he sat
down, closing the door.

The minister entered, and, as he ascended the pulpit, the
organ began to breathe its solemn welcome. When the
choir rose and commenced their chorus, Edna stood silent,
with her book in her hand, and her eyes fixed on the Murrays'
pew.

The strains of triumph ceased, the organ only sobbed its
sympathy to the thorn-crowned Christ, struggling along
the Via Dolorosa, and the orphan's quivering lips parted,
and she sang her solo.

As her magnificent voice rose and rolled to the arched
roof, people forgot propriety, and turned to look at the
singer. She saw Mrs. Murray start and glance eagerly up
at her, and for an instant the grand pure voice faltered
slightly, as Edna noticed that the mother whispered something
to the son. But he did not turn his proud head, he
only leaned his elbow on the side of the pew next to the
aisle, and rested his temple on his hand.

When the preliminary services ended, and the minister
stood up in the shining pulpit and commenced his discourse,
Edna felt that St. Elmo had at last enlisted angels in his
behalf; for the text was contained in the warning, whose
gilded letters hid the blood-spot, “Judge not, that ye be
not judged.”

As far as two among his auditory were concerned, the
preacher might as well have addressed his sermon to the
mossy slabs, visible through the windows. Both listened
to the text, and neither heard any more. Edna sat looking
down at Mr. Murray's massive, finely-poised head, and she
could see the profile contour of features, regular and dark,
as if carved and bronzed.

During the next half-hour her vivid imagination sketched
and painted a vision of enchantment—of what might have
been, if that motionless man below, there in the crimson-cushioned
pew, had only kept his soul from grievous sins.
A vision of a happy, proud, young wife reigning at Le Bocage,
shedding the warm rosy light of her love over the
lonely life of its master; adding to his strong clear intellect
and ripe experience, the silver flame of her genius; borrowing
from him broader and more profound views of her
race, on which to base her ideal æsthetic structures; softening,
refining his nature, strengthening her own; helping
him to help humanity; loving all good, being good, doing
good; serving and worshipping God together; walking
hand in hand with her husband through earth's wide valley
of Baca, with peaceful faces full of faith, looking heavenward.

At last, with a faint moan, which reached no ear but that
of Him who never slumbers, Edna withdrew her eyes from

the spot where Mr. Murray sat, and raised them toward the
pale Christ, whose wan lips seemed to murmur:

“Be of good cheer! He that overcometh shall inherit
all things. What I do, thou knowest not now, but thou
shalt know hereafter.”

The minister standing beneath the picture of the Master
whom he served, closed the Bible and ended his discourse
by hurling his text as a thunderbolt at those whose upturned
faces watched him:

“Finally, brethren, remember under all circumstances
the awful admonition of Jesus, `Judge not, that ye be not
judged!'”

The organ peals and the doxology were concluded; the
benediction fell like God's dew, alike on sinner and on
saint, and amid the solemn moaning of the gilded pipes,
the congregation turned to quit the church.

With both hands pressed over her heart, Edna leaned
heavily against the railing.

“To-morrow I go away for ever. I shall never see his
face again in this world. Oh! I want to look at it once
more.”

As he stepped into the aisle, Mr. Murray threw his head
back slightly, and his eyes swept up to the gallery and met
hers. It was a long, eager, heart-searching gaze. She saw
a countenance more fascinating than of old; for the sardonic
glare had gone, the bitterness, “the dare-man, dare-brute,
dare-devil” expression had given place to a stern mournfulness,
and the softening shadow of deep contrition and
manly sorrow hovered over features where scoffing cynicism
had so long scowled.

The magnetism of St. Elmo's eyes was never more marvellous
than when they rested on the beautiful white face
of the woman he loved so well, whose calm holy eyes shone
like those of an angel, as they looked sadly down at his.
In the mystical violet light with which the rich stained
glass flooded the church, that pallid, suffering face, sublime

in its meekness and resignation, hung above him, like one
of Perugino's saints over kneeling mediæval worshippers.
As the moving congregation bore him nearer to the door,
she leaned farther over the mahogany balustrade, and a
snowy crocus which she wore at her throat, snapped its
brittle stem and floated down till it touched his shoulder
He laid one hand over it, holding it there, and while a
prayer burned in his splendid eyes, hers smiled a melancholy
farewell. The crowd swept the tall form forward,
under the arches, beyond the fluted columns of the gallery,
and the long gaze ended.