University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

IMMEDIATELY after her return to New-York,
Edna resumed her studies with renewed energy,
and found her physical strength recruited and
her mind invigorated by repose. Her fondness
for Hattie induced her to remain with Mrs. Andrews, in
the capacity of governess, though her position in the family
had long ceased to resemble in any respect that of a hireling.
Five hours of each day were devoted to the education
of the little girl, who, though vastly inferior in mental
endowments to her brother, was an engaging and exceedingly
affectionate child, fully worthy of the love which her
gifted governess lavished upon her. The remainder of her
time Edna divided between study, music, and an extensive
correspondence, which daily increased.

She visited little, having no leisure and less inclination to
fritter away her mornings in gossip and chit-chat; but she
appropriated one evening in each week to the reception of
her numerous kind friends, and of all strangers who desired
to call upon her. These reunions were brilliant and delightful,
and it was considered a privilege to be present at
gatherings where eminent men and graceful, refined, cultivated
Christian women assembled to discuss ethical and
æsthetic topics, which all educated Americans are deemed
capable of comprehending.

Edna's abhorrence of double entendre and of the fashionable
sans souci style of conversation, which was tolerated
by many who really disliked but had not nerve enough to

frown it down, was not a secret to any who read her writings
or attended her receptions. Without obtruding her
rigid views of true womanly delicacy and decorum upon
any one, her deportment under all circumstances silently
published her opinion of certain latitudinarian expressions
prevalent in society.

She saw that the growing tendency to free and easy manners
and colloquial license was rapidly destroying all reverence
for womanhood; was levelling the distinction between
ladies' parlors and gentlemen's club-rooms; was
placing the sexes on a platform of equality which was dangerous
to feminine delicacy, that God-built bulwark of feminine
purity and of national morality.

That time-honored maxim, “Honi soit qui mal y pense,”
she found had been distorted from its original and noble
significance, and was now a mere convenient India-rubber
cloak, stretched at will to cover and excuse allusions which
no really modest woman could tolerate. Consequently
when she heard it flippantly pronounced in palliation of
some gross offence against delicacy, she looked more searchingly
into the characters of the indiscreet talkers, and quietly
intimated to them that their presence was not desired at
her receptions. Believing that modesty and purity were
twin sisters, and that vulgarity and vice were rarely if ever
divorced, Edna sternly refused to associate with those whose
laxity of manners indexed, in her estimation, a corresponding
laxity of morals. Married belles and married beaux she
shunned and detested, regarding them as a disgrace to their
families, as a blot upon all noble womanhood and manhood,
and as the most dangerous foes to the morality of the community,
in which they unblushingly violated hearth-stone
statutes and the venerable maxims of social decorum.

The ostracized banded in wrath, and ridiculed her antiquated
prudery; but knowing that the pure and noble
mothers, wives, and daughters honored and trusted her,
Edna gave no heed to raillery and envious malice, but resolutely

obeyed the dictates of conscience and the promptings
of her womanly intuitions.

Painful experience had taught her the imprudence, the
short-sighted policy of working until very late at night;
and in order to take due care of her health, she wisely resorted
to a different system of study, which gave her more
sleep, and allowed her some hours of daylight for her literary
labors.

In the industrial pursuits of her own sex she was intensely
interested, and spared no trouble in acquainting herself with
the statistics of those branches of employment already open
to them; consequently she was never so happy as when the
recipient of letters from the poor women of the land, who
thanked her for the words of hope, advice, and encouragement
which she constantly addressed to them.

While the world honored her, she had the precious assurance
that her Christian countrywomen loved and trusted
her. She felt the painful need of Mr. Manning's society, and
even his frequent letters did not fully satisfy her; but as he
had resolved to reside in Europe, at least for some years,
she bore the irreparable loss of his counsel and sympathy,
as she bore all other privations, bravely and quietly.

Now and then alarming symptoms of the old suffering
warned her of the uncertainty of her life; and after much
deliberation, feeling that her time was limited, she commenced
another book.

Mr. Hammond wrote begging her to come to him, as he
was now hopelessly infirm, and confined to his room; but
she shrank from a return to the village so intimately associated
with events which she wished if possible to forget;
and, while she declined the invitation, she proved her affection
for her venerable teacher by sending him every day a
long, cheerful letter.

Since her departure from the parsonage Mrs. Murray had
never written to her; but through Mr. Hammond's and Huldah's
letters Edna learned that Mr. Murray was the officiating

minister in the church which he had built in his boyhood;
and now and then the old pastor painted pictures of
life at Le Bocage, that brought happy tears to the orphan's
eyes. She heard from time to time of the good the new
minister was accomplishing among the poor; of the beneficial
influence he exerted, especially over the young men of
the community; of the charitable institutions to which he
was devoting a large portion of his fortune; of the love
and respect, the golden opinions he was winning from
those whom he had formerly estranged by his sarcastic bitterness.

While Edna fervently thanked God for this most wonderful
change, she sometimes repeated exultingly:

Only one cause of disquiet now remained. The political
storm of 1861 alarmed her; and she determined that if the
threatened secession of the South took place, she would immediately
remove to Charleston or New-Orleans, link her
destiny with the cause which she felt was so just, so holy,
and render faithful allegiance to the section she loved so well.
She knew that she could easily obtain a school, or support
herself by her pen; and moreover, a very respectable
amount—the careful savings of sums paid by her publishers—was
now in Mr. Andrews' keeping.

One darling rose-hued dream of her life was to establish
a free-school and circulating library in the village of Chattanooga;
and keeping this hope ever in view, she had denied
herself all superfluous luxuries, and jealously hoarded her
savings.

She felt now that, should she become an invalid, and incapable
of writing or teaching, the money which Mr. Andrews
had invested very judiciously, would at least supply
her with the necessities of life.

One evening she held her weekly reception as usual,
though she had complained of not feeling quite well that day.

A number of carriages stood before Mrs. Andrews' door,
and many friends who laughed and talked to the governess,
little dreamed that it was the last time they would spend
an evening together in her society. The pleasant hours
passed swiftly; Edna had never conversed more gracefully
or brilliantly, and the auditors thought her voice was richer
and sweeter than ever, as she sang the last song and rose
from the piano.

The guests took their departure—the carriages rolled
away.

Mrs. Andrews ran up to her room, and Edna paused in
the brilliantly lighted parlors to read a note, which had
been handed to her during the evening.

Standing under the blazing chandelier, the face and figure
of this woman could not fail to excite interest in all who
gazed upon her.

She was dressed in plain black silk, which exactly fitted
her form, and in her hair glowed rich clusters of scarlet
sage and geranium flowers. A spray of red fuchsia was
fastened by the beautiful stone cameo that confined her lace
collar; and, save the handsome gold bands on her wrists,
she wore no other ornaments.

Felix had given her these bracelets as a Christmas present,
and after his death she never took them off; for inside
he had his name and hers engraved, and between them the
word “Mizpah.”

To-night the governess was very weary, and the fair sweet
face wore its old childish expression of mingled hopelessness,
and perfect patience, and indescribable repose. As
she read, the tired look passed away, and over her pallid
features, so daintily sculptured, stole a faint glow, such as
an ivory Niobe might borrow from the fluttering crimson
folds of silken shroudings. The peaceful lips stirred also,
and the low tone was full of pathos as she said;

“How very grateful I ought to be. How much I have
to make me happy, to encourage me to work diligently and
faithfully. How comforting it is to feel that parents have
sufficient confidence in me to be willing to commit their
children to my care. What more can I wish? My cup is
brimmed with blessings. Ah! why am I not entirely happy?”

The note contained the signatures of six wealthy gentlemen,
who requested her acceptance of a tasteful and handsome
house, on condition that she would consent to undertake
the education of their daughters, and permit them to
pay her a liberal salary.

It was a flattering tribute to the clearness of her intellect,
the soundness of her judgment, the extent of her acquirements,
and the purity of her heart.

While she could not accede to the proposition, she appreciated
most gratefully the generosity and good opinion
of those who made it.

Twisting the note between her fingers, her eyes fell on
the carpet, and she thought of all her past; of the sorrows,
struggles, and heart-aches, the sleepless nights and weary,
joyless days—first of adverse, then of favorable criticism;
of toiling, hoping, dreading, praying; and now, in the
peaceful zenith of her triumph, popularity, and usefulness,
she realized

The note fluttered to the floor, the hands folded themselves
together, and she raised her eyes to utter an humble
fervent “Thank God!” But the words froze on her lips;
for as she looked up, she saw Mr. Murray standing a few
feet from her.

“God has pardoned all my sins, and accepted me as a

laborer worthy to enter his vineyard. Is Edna Earl more
righteous than the Lord she worships?”

His face was almost as pale as hers, and his voice trembled
as he extended his arms toward her.

She stood motionless, looking up at him with eyes that
brightened and brightened until their joyful radiance
seemed indeed unearthly; and the faint, delicate blush on
her cheeks deepened and burned, and with a quivering cry
of gladness that told volumes, she hid her face in her
hands.

He came nearer, and the sound of his low, mellow voice
thrilled her heart as no other music had ever done.

“Edna, have you a right to refuse me forgiveness, when
the blood of Christ has purified me from the guilt of other
years?”

She trembled and said brokenly:

“Mr. Murray—you never wronged me—and I have nothing
to forgive.”

“Do you still believe me an unprincipled hypocrite?”

“Oh! no, no, no!”

“Do you believe that my repentance has been sincere,
and acceptable to my insulted God? Do you believe that
I am now as faithfully endeavoring to serve Him, as a remorseful
man possibly can?”

“I hope so, Mr. Murray.”

“Edna, can you trust me now?”

Some seconds elapsed before she answered, and then the
words were scarcely audible.

“I trust you.”

“Thank God!”

There was a brief pause, and she heard a heavily-drawn
sigh escape him.

“Edna, it is useless to tell you how devotedly I love
you, for you have known that for years; and yet you have
shown my love no mercy. But perhaps if you could realize
how much I need your help in my holy work, how much

more good I could accomplish in the world if you were
with me, you might listen, without steeling yourself against
me, as you have so long done. Can you, will you trust me
fully? Can you be a minister's wife, and aid him as only
you can? O my darling, my darling! I never expect to
be worthy of you! But you can make me less unworthy!
My own darling, come to me.”

He stood within two feet of her, but he was—too humble?
Nay, nay, too proud to touch her without permission.

Her hands fell from her crimson cheeks, and she looked
up at the countenance of her king.

In her fond eyes he seemed noble and sanctified, and
worthy of all confidence; and as he opened his arms once
more, she glided into them and laid her head on his shoulder,
whispering:

“Oh! I trust you! I trust you fully!”

Standing in the close, tender clasp of his strong arms,
she listened to a narration of his grief and loneliness, his
hopes and fears, his desolation and struggles and prayers
during their long separation. Then for the first time she
learned that he had come more than once to New-York,
solely to see her, having exacted a promise from Mr. Manning
that he would not betray his presence in the city.
He had followed her at a distance as she wandered with
the children through the park; and, once in the ramble,
stood so close to her, that he put out his hand and touched
her dress. Mr. Manning had acquainted him with all that
had ever passed between them on the subject of his unsuccessful
suit; and during her sojourn in Europe, had kept
him regularly advised of the state of her health.

At last, when Mr. Murray bent his head to press his lips
again to hers, he exclaimed in the old, pleading tone that
had haunted her memory for years:

“Edna, with all your meekness you are wilfully proud!
You tell me you trust me, and you nestle your dear head
here on my shoulder—why won't you say what you know
so well I am longing, hungering to hear? Why won't you
say, `St. Elmo, I love you'?”

The glowing face was only pressed closer.

“My little darling!”

“O Mr. Murray! could I be here—”

“Well, my stately Miss Earl! I am waiting most respectfully
to allow you an opportunity of expressing
yourself.”

No answer.

He laughed as she had heard him once before, when he
took her in his arms and dared her to look into his eyes.

“When I heard your books extolled; when I heard your
praises from men, women, and children; when I could
scarcely pick up a paper without finding some mention of
your name; when I came here to-night, and paced the
pavement, waiting for your admirers to leave the house;
whenever and wherever I have heard your dear name
uttered, I have been exultingly proud! For I knew that
the heart of the people's pet was mine, all mine! I gloried
in the consciousness, which alone strengthened and comforted
me, that, despite all that the public could offer you,
despite the adulation of other men, and despite my utter
unworthiness, my own darling was true to me! that you
never loved any one but St. Elmo Murray! And as God
reigns above us, his happy world holds no man so grateful,
so happy, so proud as I am! No man so resolved to prove
himself worthy of his treasure! Edna, looking back across
the dark years that have gone so heavily over my head,
and comparing you, my pure, precious darling, with that
woman, whom in my boyhood I selected for my life-companion,

I know not whether I am most humble, or grateful,
or proud!

As Mr. Hammond was not able to take the fatiguing
journey north, and Edna would not permit any one else to
perform her marriage ceremony, she sent Mr. Murray home
without her, promising to come to the parsonage as early as
possible.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews were deeply pained by the intelligence
of her approaching departure, and finally they consented
to accompany her on her journey.

The last day of the orphan's sojourn in New-York was
spent at the quiet spot where Felix slept his last sleep; and
it caused her poignant grief to bid good-bye to his resting-place,
which was almost as dear to her as the grave of her
grandfather. Their affection had been so warm, so sacred,
that she clung fondly to his memory; and it was not until
she reached the old dépôt, where carriages were waiting
for the party, that the shadow of that day entirely left her
countenance.

In accordance with her own request, Edna did not see
Mr. Murray again until the hour appointed for their marriage.

It was a bright, beautiful afternoon, warm with sunshine,
when she permitted Mrs. Murray to lead her into the study
where the party had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,
Hattie, Huldah, and the white-haired pastor, were all
there; and when Edna entered, Mr. Murray advanced to
meet her, and received her hand from his mother.

The orphan's eyes were bent to the floor, and never once
lifted, even when the trembling voice of her beloved pastor
pronounced her St. Elmo Murray's wife. The intense pallor
of her face frightened Mrs. Andrews, who watched her
with suspended breath, and once moved eagerly toward her.
Mr. Murray felt her lean more heavily against him during
the ceremony; and, now turning to take her in his arms, he
saw that her eyelashes had fallen on her cheeks—she had
lost all consciousness of what was passing.

Two hours elapsed before she recovered fully from the
attack; and when the blood showed itself again in lips
that were kissed so repeatedly, Mr. Murray lifted her from
the sofa in the study, and passing his arm around her, said:

“To-day I snap the fetters of your literary bondage.
There shall be no more books written! No more study,
no more toil, no more anxiety, no more heart-aches! And
that dear public you love so well, must even help itself, and
whistle for a new pet. You belong solely to me now, and
I shall take care of the life you have nearly destroyed, in
your inordinate ambition. Come, the fresh air will revive
you.”

They stood a moment under the honeysuckle arch over
the parsonage gate, where the carriage was waiting to take
them to Le Bocage, and Mr. Murray asked:

“Are you strong enough to go to the church?”

“Yes, sir; the pain has all passed away. I am perfectly
well again.”

They crossed the street, and he took her in his arms and
carried her up the steps, and into the grand, solemn church,
where the soft, holy violet light from the richly-tinted
glass streamed over gilded organ-pipes and sculptured
columns.

Neither Edna nor St. Elmo spoke as they walked down
the aisle; and in perfect silence both knelt before the shining
altar, and only God heard their prayers of gratitude.

After some moments Mr. Murray put out his hand, took

Edna's, and, holding it it his on the top of the balustrade,
he prayed aloud, asking God's blessing on their marriage,
and fervently dedicating all their future to his work.

And the hectic flush of the dying day was reflected on
the window high above the altar, and, burning through the
red mantle of the Christ, fell down upon the marble shrine
like sacred, sacrificial fire.

Edna felt as if her heart could not hold all its measureless
joy. It seemed a delightful dream to see Mr. Murray
kneeling at her side; to hear his voice earnestly consecrating
their lives to the service of Jesus Christ.

She knew from the tremor in his tone, and the tears in
his eyes, that his dedication was complete; and now to be
his companion through all the remaining years of their
earthly pilgrimage, to be allowed to help him and love him,
to walk heavenward with her hand in his; this—this was
the crowning glory and richest blessing of her life.

When his prayer ended, she laid her head down on the
altar-railing, and sobbed like a child.

In the orange glow of a wintry sunset, they came out and
sat down on the steps, while a pair of spotless white pigeons
perched on the blood-stain; and Mr. Murray put his arm
around Edna, and drew her face to his bosom.

“Darling, do you remember that once, in the dark days
of my reckless sinfulness, I asked you one night, in the library
at Le Bocage, if you had no faith in me? And you
repeated so vehemently, `None, Mr. Murray!'”

“O sir! do not think of it. Why recur to what is so
painful and so long past? Forgive those words and forget
them! Never was more implicit faith, more devoted
affection, given to any human being than I give now to
you, Mr. Murray; you, who are my first and my last and
my only love.”

She felt his arm tighten around her waist, and his tears
fell on her forehead, as he bowed his face to hers.

“Forgive? Ah my darling! do you recollect also that I

told you then that the time would come when your dear
lips would ask pardon for what they uttered that night, and
that when that hour arrived I would take my revenge?
My wife! my pure, noble, beautiful wife! give me my revenge,
for I cry with the long-banished Roman:

He put his hand under her chin, drew the lips to his, and
kissed them repeatedly.

Down among the graves, in the brown grass and withered
leaves, behind a tall shaft, around which coiled a carved
marble serpent with hooded head—there, amid the dead,
crouched a woman's figure, with a stony, gray, Gorgonian
face, and writhing lips, and blue chatoyant eyes, that glared
with murderous hate at the sweet holy countenance of
the happy bride. When St. Elmo tenderly kissed the pure
lips of his wife, Agnes Powell smothered a savage cry, and
Nemesis was satisfied as the wretched woman fell forward
on the grass, sweeping her yellow hair over her eyes, to
shut out the vision that maddened her.

Then and there, for the first time, as she sat enfolded by
her husband's arm, Edna felt that she could thank him for
the monument erected over her grandfather's grave.

The light faded slowly in the west, the pigeons ceased their
fluttering about the belfry, and as he turned to quit the
church, so dear to both, Mr. Murray stretched his hand
toward the ivy-clad vault, and said solemnly:

“I throw all mournful years behind me; and, by the
grace of God, our new lives, commencing this hallowed
day, shall make noble amends for the wasted past. Loving
each other, aiding each other, serving Christ, through
whose atonement alone, I have been saved from eternal
ruin. To Thy merciful guidance, O Father! we commit our
future.”

Edna looked reverently up at his beaming countenance,
whence the shadows of hate and scorn had long since passed;
and, as his splendid eyes came back to hers, reading
in her beautiful, pure face all her love and confidence and
happy hope, he drew her closer to his bosom, and laid his
dark cheek on hers, saying fondly and proudly: