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St. Elmo

<h2 id="id01481" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> "Mr. Hammond, are you ill? What can be the matter?" Edna threw down her books and put her hand on the old man's shoulder. His face was concealed in his arms, and his half-stifled groan told that some fierce trial had over-taken him. "Oh, child! I am troubled, perplexed, and my heart is heavy with a sorrow which I thought I had crushed." He raised his head for a moment, looked sadly into the girl's face, and dropped his furrowed cheek on his hand. "Has anything happened since I saw you yesterday?" "Yes, I have been surprised by the arrival of some of my relatives, whose presence in my house revives very painful associations connected with earlier years. My niece, Mrs. Powell, and her daughter Gertrude, came very unexpectedly last night to make me a visit of some length; and to you, my child, I can frankly say the surprise is a painful one. Many years have elapsed since I received any tidings of Agnes Powell, and I knew not, until she suddenly appeared before me last night, that she was a widow, and bereft of a handsome fortune. She claims a temporary home under my roof; and, though she has caused me much suffering, I feel that I must endeavor to be patient and kind to her and her child. I have endured many trials, but this is one of the severest I have yet been called to pass through." Distressed by the look of anguish on his pale face, Edna took his hand between both hers, and stroking it caressingly, said: "My dear sir, if it is your duty, God will strengthen and sustain you. Cheer up; I can't bear to see you looking so troubled. A cloud on your face, my dear Mr. Hammond, is to me like an eclipse of the sun. Pray do not keep me in shadow." "If I could know that no mischief would result from Agnes's presence, I would not regard it so earnestly. I do not wish to be uncharitable or suspicious; but I fear that her motives are not such as I could—" "May I intrude, Uncle Allan?" The stranger's voice was very sweet and winning, and as she entered the room Edna could scarcely repress an exclamation of admiration; for the world sees but rarely such perfect beauty as was the portion of Agnes Powell. She was one of those few women who seem the pets of time, whose form and features catch some new grace and charm from every passing year; and but for the tall, lovely girl who clung to her hand and called her "mother," a stranger would have believed her only twenty-six or eight. Fair, rosy, with a complexion fresh as a child's, and a face faultless in contour, as that of a Greek goddess, it was impossible to resist the fascination which she exerted over all who looked upon her. Her waving yellow hair flashed in the morning sunshine, and as she raised one hand to shade her large, clear, blue eyes, her open sleeve fell back, disclosing an arm dazzlingly white and exquisitely moulded. As Mr. Hammond introduced his pupil to his guests, Mrs. Powell smiled pleasantly, and pressed the offered hand; but the eyes, blue and cold as the stalactites of Capri, scanned the orphan's countenance, and when Edna had seen fully into their depths, she could not avoid recalling Heine's poem of Loreley. "My daughter Gertrude promises herself much pleasure in your society, Miss Earl; for uncle's praises prepare her to expect a most charming companion. She is about your age, but I fear you will find great disparity in her attainments, as she has not been so fortunate as to receive her education from Uncle Allan. You are, I believe, an adopted daughter of Mrs. Murray?" "No, madam; only a resident in her house until my education is pronounced sufficiently advanced to justify my teaching." "I have a friend, Miss Harding, who has recently removed to Le Bocage, and intends making it her home. How is she?" "Quite well, I believe." Mr. Hammond left the study for a moment, and Mrs. Powell added: "Her friends at the North tell me that she is to marry her cousin, Mr. Murray, very soon." "I had not heard the report." "Then you think there are no grounds for the rumor?" "Indeed, madam, I know nothing whatever concerning the matter." "Estelle is handsome and brilliant." Edna made no reply; and, after waiting a few seconds, Mrs. Powell asked: "Does Mr. Murray go much into society now?" "I believe not." "Is he as handsome as ever?" "I do not know when you saw him last, but the ladies here seem rather to dread than admire him. Mrs. Powell, you are dipping your sleeve in your uncle's inkstand." She by no means relished this catechism, and resolved to end it. Picking up her books, she said to Mr. Hammond, who now stood in the door: "I presume I need not wait, as you will be too much occupied to-day to attend to my lessons." "Yes; I must give you holiday until Monday." "Miss Earl, may I trouble you to hand this letter to Miss Harding? It was entrusted to my care by one of her friends in New York. Pray be so good as to deliver it, with my kindest regards." As Edna left the house, the pastor took his hat from the rack in the hall, and walked silently beside her until she reached the gate. "Mr. Hammond, your niece is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." He sighed heavily, and answered, hesitatingly: "Yes, yes. She is more beautiful now than when she first grew up." "How long has she been a widow?" "Not quite a year." The troubled expression settled once more over his placid face, and when Edna bade him good-morning, and had walked some distance, she happened to look back, and saw him still leaning on the little gate under the drooping honeysuckle tendrils, with his gray head bent down on his hand. That Mrs. Powell was in some way connected with Mr. Murray's estrangement from the minister Edna felt sure, and the curiosity which the inquiries of the former had betrayed, told her that she must be guarded in her intercourse with a woman who was an object of distrust even to her own uncle. Very often she had been tempted to ask Mr. Hammond why Mr. Murray so sedulously shunned him; but the shadow which fell upon his countenance whenever St. Elmo's name was accidentally mentioned, made her shrink from alluding to the subject which he evidently avoided discussing. Before she had walked beyond the outskirts of the village, Mr. Leigh joined her and she felt the color rise in her cheeks as his fine eyes rested on her face, and his hand pressed hers. "You must forgive me for telling you how bitterly I was disappointed in not seeing you two days ago. Why did you absent yourself from the table?" "Because I had no desire to meet Mrs. Murray's guests, and preferred to spend my time with Mr. Hammond." "If he were not old enough to be your grandfather, I believe I should be jealous of him. Edna, do not be offended, I am so anxious about you—so pained at the change in your appearance. Last Sunday as you sat in church I noticed how very pale and worn you looked, and with what weariness you leaned your head upon your hand. Mrs. Murray says you are very well, but I know better. You are either sick in body or mind; which is it?" "Neither, Mr. Leigh. I am quite well, I assure you." "You are grieved about something, which you are unwilling to confide to me. Edna, it is keen pain that sometimes brings that quiver to your lips, and if you would only tell me! Edna, I know that I—" "You conjure up a spectre. I have nothing to confide, and there is no trouble which you can relieve." They walked on silently for a while, and then Gordon said: "I am going away day after to-morrow, to be absent at least for several months, and I have come to ask a favor which you are too generous to deny. I want your ambrotype or photograph, and I hope you will give it to me without hesitation." "I have never had a likeness of any kind taken." "There is a good artist here; will you not go to-day and have one taken for me?" "No, Mr. Leigh." "Oh, Edna! Why not?" "Because I do not wish you to think of remembering me. The sooner you forget me entirely, save as a mere friend, the happier we both shall be." "But that is impossible. If you withhold your picture it will do no good, for I have your face here in my heart, and you cannot take that image from me." "At least I will not encourage feelings which can bring only pain to me and disappointment to yourself. I consider it unprincipled and contemptible in a woman to foster or promote in any degree an affection which she knows she can never reciprocate. If I had fifty photographs I would not give you one. My dear friend, let the past be forgotten; it saddens me whenever I think of it, and is a barrier to all pleasant, friendly intercourse. Good-bye, Mr. Leigh. You have my best wishes on your journey." "Will you not allow me to see you home?" "I think it is best—I prefer that you should not. Mr. Leigh, promise me that you will struggle against this feeling which distresses me beyond expression." She turned and put out her hand. He shook his head mournfully, and said as he left her: "God bless you! It will be a dreary, dreary season with me till I return and see your face again. God preserve you till then!" Walking rapidly homeward, Edna wondered why she could not return Gordon Leigh's affection—why his noble face never haunted her dreams instead of another's—of which she dreaded to think. Looking rigorously into the past few weeks, she felt that long before she was aware of the fact, an image to which she refused homage must have stood between her heart and Gordon's. When she reached home she inquired for Miss Harding, and was informed that she and Mrs. Murray had gone visiting with Mr. Allston; had taken lunch, and would not return until late in the afternoon. Hagar told her that Mr. Murray had started at daylight to one of his plantations about twelve miles distant, and would not be back in time for dinner; and, rejoiced at the prospect of a quiet day, she determined to complete the chapter which she had left unfinished two night previous. Needing a reference in the book which Mr. Murray had taken from the library, she went up to copy it; and as she sat down and opened the volume to find the passage she required, a letter slipped out and fell at her feet. She glanced at the envelope as she picked it up, and her heart bounded painfully as she saw Mr. Murray's name written in Mr. Manning's peculiar and unmistakable chirography. The postmark and date corresponded exactly with the one that she had received the night Mr. Murray gave her the roll of MS., and the strongest temptation of her life here assailed her. She would almost have given her right hand to know the contents of that letter, and Mr. Murray's confident assertion concerning the package was now fully explained. He had recognized the handwriting on her letters, and suspected her ambitious scheme. He was not a stranger to Mr. Manning, and must have known the nature of their correspondence; consequently his taunt about a lover was entirely ironical. She turned the unsealed envelope over and over longing to know what it contained. The house was deserted—there was, she knew, no human being nearer than the kitchen, and no eye but God's upon her. She looked once more at the superscription of the letter, sighed, and put it back into the book without opening the envelope. She copied into her note-book the reference she was seeking, and replacing the volume on the window-sill where she had found it, went back to her own room and tried to banish the subject of the letter from her mind. After all, it was not probable that Mr. Murray had ever mentioned her name to his correspondent; and as she had not alluded to Le Bocage or its inmates in writing to Mr. Manning, St. Elmo's hints concerning her MS. were merely based on conjecture. She felt as if she would rather face any other disaster sooner than have him scoffing at her daring project; and more annoyed and puzzled than she chose to confess, she resolutely bent her thoughts upon her work. It was almost dusk before Mrs. Murray and her guests returned; and when it grew so dark that Edna could not see the lines of her paper, she smoothed her hair, changed her dress, and went down to the parlor. Mrs. Murray was resting in a corner of the sofa, fanning herself vigorously, and Mr. Allston smoked on the veranda, and talked to her through the open window. "Well, Edna, where have you been all day?" "With my books." "I am tired almost to death! This country visiting is an intolerable bore! I am worn out with small talk and back-biting. Society nowadays is composed of cannibals—infinitely more to be dreaded than the Fijians—who only devour the body and leave the character of an individual intact. Child, let us have some music by way of variety. Play that symphony of Beethoven that I heard you practicing last week." She laid her head on the arm of the sofa, and shut her eyes, and Edna opened the piano and played the piece designated. The delicacy of her touch enabled her to render it with peculiar pathos and power; and she played on and on, unmindful of Miss Harding's entrance—oblivious of everything but the sublime strains of the great master. The light streamed over her face, and showed a gladness, an exaltation of expression there, as if her soul had broken from its earthly moorings, and was making its way joyfully into the infinite sea of eternal love and blessedness. At last her fingers fell from the keys, and as she rose she saw Mr. Murray standing outside of the parlor door, with his fingers shading his eyes. He came in soon after, and his mother held out her hand, saying: "Here is a seat, my son. Have you just returned?" "No, I have been here some time." "How are affairs at the plantation?" "I really have no idea." "Why? I thought you went there to-day." "I started; but found my horse so lame that I went no further than town." "Indeed! Hagar told me you had not returned, when I came in from visiting." "Like some other people of my acquaintance, Hagar reckons without her host. I have been at home ever since twelve o'clock, and saw the carriage as you drove off." "And pray how have you employed yourself, you incorrigible ignis fatuus? O my cousin! you are well named. Aunt Ellen must have had an intuitive insight into your character when she had you christened St. Elmo; only she should have added the 'Fire—' How have you spent the day, sir?" "Most serenely and charmingly, my fair cousin, in the solitude of my den. If my mother could give me satisfactory security that all my days would prove as quiet and happy as this has been, I would enter into bonds never to quit the confines of Le Bocage again. Ah! the indescribable relief of feeling that nothing was expected of me; that the galling gyves of hospitality and etiquette were snapped, and that I was entirely free from all danger of intrusion. This day shall be marked with a white stone; for I entered my rooms at twelve o'clock, and remained there in uninterrupted peace till five minutes ago; when I put on my social shackles once more, and hobbled down to entertain my fair guest." Edna was arranging some sheets of music that were scattered on the piano; but as he mentioned the hour of his return, she remembered that the clock struck one just as she went into the sitting-room where he kept his books and cabinets; and she knew now that he was at that very time in the inner room, beyond the arch. She put her hand to her forehead, and endeavored to recollect the appearance of the apartment. The silk curtains, she was sure, were hanging over the arch; for she remembered distinctly having noticed a large and very beautiful golden butterfly which had fluttered in from the terrace, and was flitting over the glowing folds that fell from the carved intrados to the marble floor. But though screened from her view, he must have heard and seen her, as she sat before his book-case, turning his letter curiously between her fingers. She dared not look up, and bent down to examine the music, so absorbed in her own emotions of chagrin and astonishment, that she heard not one word of what Miss Harding was saying. She felt well assured that if Mr. Murray were cognizant of her visit to the "Egyptian museum," he intended her to know it, and she knew that his countenance would solve her painful doubt. Gathering up her courage, she raised her eyes quickly in the direction of the sofa, where he had thrown himself, and met just what she most dreaded, his keen gaze riveted on her face. Evidently he had been waiting for this eager, startling, questioning glance; for instantly he smiled, inclined his head slightly, and arched his eyebrows, as if much amused. Never before had she seen his face so bright and happy, so free from bitterness. If he had said, "Yes, I saw you: are you not thoroughly discomfited, and ashamed of your idle curiosity? What interest can you possibly have in carefully studying the outside of my letters? How do you propose to mend matters?"—he could not have more fully conveyed his meaning. Edna's face crimsoned, and she put up her hand to shield it; but Mr. Murray turned toward the window, and coolly discussed the merits of a popular race-horse, upon which Clinton Allston lavished extravagant praise. Estelle leaned against the window, listening to the controversy, and after a time, when the subject seemed very effectually settled by an oath from the master of the house, Edna availed herself of the lull in the conversation to deliver the letter. "Miss Harding, I was requested to hand you this." Estelle broke the seal, glanced rapidly over the letter and exclaimed: "Is it possible? Can she be here? Who gave you this letter?" "Mrs. Powell, Mr. Hammond's niece." "Agnes Powell?" "Yes. Agnes Powell." During the next three minutes one might have distinctly heard a pin fall, for the ticking of two watches was very audible. Estelle glanced first at her cousin, then at her aunt, then back at her cousin. Mrs. Murray involuntarily laid her hand on her son's knee, and watched his face with an expression of breathless anxiety; and Edna saw that, though his lips blanched, not a muscle moved, not a nerve twitched; and only the deadly hate, that appeared to leap into his large shadowy eyes, told that the name stirred some bitter memory. The silence was growing intolerable when Mr. Murray turned his gaze full on Estelle, and said in his usual sarcastic tone: "Have you seen a ghost? Your letter must contain tidings of Victor's untimely demise; for, if there is such a thing as retribution, such a personage as Nemesis, I swear that poor devil of a Count has crept into her garments and come to haunt you. Did he cut his white womanish throat with a penknife, or smother himself with charcoal fumes, or light a poisoned candle and let his poor homoeopathic soul drift out dreamily into eternity? If so, Gabriel will require a powerful microscope to find him. Notwithstanding the fact that you destined him for my cousin, the little curly creature always impressed me as being a stray specimen of an otherwise extinct type of intellectual Lacrymatoria. Is he really dead? Peace to his infusorial soul! Who had the courage to write and break the melancholy tidings to you? Or perhaps, after all, it is only the ghost of your own conscience that has brought that scared look into your face." She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "How insanely jealous you are of Victor! He's neither dead nor dreaming of suicide, but enjoying himself vastly in Baden-Baden. Edna, did Mrs. Powell bring Gertrude with her?" "Yes." "Do you know how long she intends remaining at the parsonage?" "I think her visit is of indefinite duration." "Edna, will you oblige me by inquiring whether Henry intends to give us any supper to-night? He forgets we have had no dinner. St. Elmo, do turn down that gas—the wind makes it flare dreadfully." Edna left the room to obey Mrs. Murray's command, and did not return immediately; but, after the party seated themselves at the table, she noticed that the master seemed in unusually high spirits; and when the meal was concluded, he challenged his cousins to a game of billiards. They repaired to the rotunda, and Mrs. Murray beckoned to Edna to follow her. As they entered her apartment she carefully closed the door. "Edna, when did Mrs. Powell arrive?" "Last night." "Did you see her?" "Yes, ma'am." "Is she very pretty?" "She is the most beautiful woman I ever met." "How did Mr. Hammond receive her?" "Her visit evidently annoys him, but he gave me no explanation of the matter, which I confess puzzles me. I should suppose her society would cheer and interest him." "Oh, pooh! Talk of what you understand. She surely has not come here to live?" "I think he fears she has. She is very poor." Mrs. Murray set her teeth together and muttered something which her companion did not understand. "Edna, is she handsomer than Estelle?" "Infinitely handsomer, I think. Indeed, they are so totally unlike it would be impossible to compare them. Your niece is very fine-looking, very commanding; Mrs. Powell is beautiful." "But she is no longer young. She has a grown daughter." "True; but in looking at her you do not realize it. Did you never see her?" "No; and I trust I never may! I am astonished that Mr. Hammond can endure the sight of her. You say he has told you nothing about her?" "Nothing which explains the chagrin her presence seems to cause." "He is very wise. But, Edna, avoid her society as much as possible. She is doubtless very fascinating; but I do not like what I have heard of her, and prefer that you should have little conversation or intercourse with her. On the whole, you might as well stay at home now; it is very warm, and you can study without Mr. Hammond's assistance." "You do not mean that my visits must cease altogether?" "Oh! no; go occasionally—once or twice a week—but certainly not every day, as formerly. And, Edna, be careful not to mention that woman's name again; I dislike her exceedingly." The orphan longed to ask for an explanation, but was too proud to solicit confidence so studiously withheld. Mrs. Murray leaned back in her large rocking-chair and fell into a reverie. Edna waited patiently for some time, and finally rose. "Mrs. Murray, have you anything more to say to me tonight? You look very much fatigued!" "Nothing, I believe. Good-night, child. Send Hagar to me." Edna went back to her desk and resolutely turned to her work; for it was one of the peculiar traits of her character that she could at will fasten her thoughts upon whatever subject she desired to master. All irrelevant ideas were sternly banished until such season as she chose to give them audience; and to-night she tore her mind from the events of the day, and diligently toiled among the fragments of Scandinavian lore for the missing links in her mythologic chain. Now and then peals of laughter from the billiard-room startled her; and more than once Mr. Murray's clear, cold voice rose above the subdued chatter of Estelle and Clinton. After a while the game ended, good-nights were exchanged, the party dispersed, doors were closed, and all grew silent. While Edna wrote on, an unexpected sound arrested her pen. She listened, and heard the slow walk of a horse beneath her window. As it passed she rose and looked out. The moon was up, and Mr. Murray was riding down the avenue. The girl returned to her MS., and worked on without intermission for another hour; then the last paragraph was carefully punctuated, the long and difficult chapter was finished. She laid aside her pen, and locked her desk. Shaking down the mass of hair that had been tightly coiled at the back of her head, she extinguished the light, and drawing a chair to the window, seated herself. Silence and peace brooded over the world; not a sound broke the solemn repose of nature. The summer breeze had rocked itself to rest in the elm boughs, and only the waning moon seemed alive and toiling as it climbed slowly up a cloudless sky, passing starry sentinels whose mighty challenge was lost in vast vortices of blue, as they paced their ceaseless round in the mighty camp of constellations. With her eyes fixed on the gloomy, groined archway of elms, where an occasional slip of moonshine silvered the ground, Edna watched and waited. The blood beat heavily in her temples and throbbed sullenly at her heart; but she sat mute and motionless as the summer night, reviewing all that had occurred during the day. Presently the distant sound of hoofs on the rocky road leading to town fell upon her strained ear; the hard, quick gallop ceased at the gate, and very slowly Mr. Murray walked his horse up the dusky avenue, and on toward the stable. From the shadow of her muslin curtain, Edna looked down on the walk beneath, and after a few moments saw him coming to the house. He paused on the terrace, took off his hat, swept back the thick hair from his forehead, and stood looking out over the quiet lawn. Then a heavy, heavy sigh, almost a moan, seemed to burst from the depths of his heart, and he turned and went into the house. The night was far spent, and the moon had cradled herself on the tree-tops, when Edna raised her face all blistered with tears. Stretching out her arms she fell on her knees, while a passionate, sobbing prayer struggled brokenly across her trembling lips: "O my God! have mercy upon him! save his wretched soul from eternal death! Help me so to live and govern myself that I bring no shame on the cause of Christ. And if it be thy will, O my God! grant that I may be instrumental in winning this precious but wandering, sinful soul back to the faith as it is in Jesus!" Ah! verily— … "More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for him night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats, That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves, and those who call them friend?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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