Mr. Manning handled the book with the stern impartiality which gave such value to his criticisms--treating it as if it had been written by an utter stranger.

He a.n.a.lyzed it thoroughly; and while pointing out some serious errors which had escaped all eyes but his, he bestowed upon a few pa.s.sages praise which no other American writer had ever received from him, and predicted that they would live when those who attempted to ridicule them were utterly forgotten in their graves.

The young author was told that she had not succeeded in her grand aim, because the subject was too vast for the limits of a novel, and her acquaintance with the mythologies of the world was not sufficiently extensive or intimate. But she was encouraged to select other themes more in accordance with the spirit of the age in which she lived; and the a.s.surance was given to her, that her writings were destined to exert a powerful influence on her race. Some faults of style were gravely reprimanded, some beauties most cordially eulogized and held up for the admiration of the world.

Edna had as little literary conceit as personal vanity; she saw and acknowledged the errors pointed out by Mr. Manning, and resolved to avoid them in future. She felt that some objections urged against her book were valid, but knew that she was honest and earnest in her work, and could not justly be accused of trifling.

Gratefully and joyfully she accepted Mr. Manning's verdict, and turned her undivided attention upon her new ma.n.u.script.

While the critics snarled, the ma.s.s of readers warmly approved; and many who did not fully appreciate all her arguments and ill.u.s.trations, were at least clear-eyed enough to perceive that it was their misfortune, not her fault.

Gradually the book took firm hold on the affections of the people; and a few editors came boldly to the rescue, and ably championed it.

During these days of trial, Edna could not avoid observing one humiliating fact, that saddened without embittering her nature. She found that instead of sympathizing with her, she received no mercy from authors, who, as a cla.s.s, out-Heroded Herod in their denunciations, and left her little room to doubt that--

"Envy's a sharper spur than pay, And unprovoked 'twill court the fray; No author ever spared a brother; Wits are gamec.o.c.ks to one another."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"Miss Earl, you promised that as soon as I finished the 'Antiquary'

you would read me a description of the spot which Sir Walter Scott selected for the scene of his story. We have read the last chapter; now please remember your promise."

"Felix, in your hunger for books you remind me of the accounts given of cormorants. The 'Antiquary' ought to satisfy you for the present, and furnish food for thought that would last at least till to- morrow; still, if you exact an immediate fulfillment of my promise, I am quite ready to comply."

Edna took from her workbasket a new and handsomely ill.u.s.trated volume, and read Bertram's graphic description of Auchmithie and the coast of Forfarshire.

Finding that her pupils were deeply interested in the "Fisher Folk,"

she read on and on; and when she began the pathetic story of the widow at Prestonpans, Hattie's eyes widened with wonder, and Felix's were dim with tears:

"We kent then that we micht look across the sea; but ower the waters would never blink the een that made sunshine around our hearths; ower the waters would never come the voices that were mair delightfu' than the music o' the simmer winds, when the leaves gang dancing till they sang. My story, sir, is dune. I hae nae mair tae tell. Sufficient and suffice it till say, that there was great grief at the Pans--Rachel weeping for her weans, and wouldna be comforted.

The windows were darkened, and the air was heavy wi' sighin' and sabbin'."

The governess closed the book, laid it back in her basket, and raising the lid of the piano, she sang that sad, wailing lyric of Kingsley's, "The Three Fishers."

It was one of those rare and royal afternoons late in August, when summer, conscious that her reign is well-nigh ended, gathers all her gorgeous drapery, and proudly robes the world in regal pomp and short-lived splendor. Pearly cloud islets, with silver strands, cl.u.s.tered in the calm blue of the upper air; soft, salmon-hued c.u.mulus ma.s.ses sailed solemnly along the eastern horizon-- atmospheric ships freighted in the tropics with crystal showers for thirsty fields and parched meadows--with snow crowns for Icelandic mountain brows, and shrouds of sleet for mouldering masts, tossed high and helpless on desolate Arctic cliffs. Restless gulls flashed their spotless wings, as they circled and dipped in the shining waves; and in the magic light of evening, the swelling canvas of a distant sloop glittered like plate-gla.s.s smitten with sunshine. A strong, steady, southern breeze curled and crested the beautiful, bounding billows, over which a fishing-smack danced like a gilded bubble; and as the aged willows bowed their heads, it whispered messages from citron, palm, and orange groves, gleaming far, far away under the white fire of the Southern Crown. Strange tidings these "winged winds" waft over sea and land; and to-day, listening to low tones that traveled to her from Le Bocage, Edna looked out over the ever-changing, wrinkled face of the ocean, and fell into a reverie.

Silence reigned in the sitting-room; Hattie fitted a new tarlatan dress on her doll, and Felix was dreaming of Prestonpans.

The breeze swept over the cl.u.s.ter of Tuscan jasmine and the tall, snowy phlox nodding in the green vase on the table, and shook the muslin curtains till light and shadow chased each other like waves over the n.o.ble Longhi engraving of Raphael's "Vision of Ezekiel,"

which hung just above the piano. After a while Felix took his chin from the windowsill, and his eyes from the sparkling, tossing water, and his gaze sought the beloved countenance of his governess.

"The mouth with steady sweetness set, And eyes conveying unaware The distant hint of some regret That harbored there."

Her dress was of white mull, with lace gathered around the neck and wristbands; a delicate fringy fern leaf was caught by the cameo that pinned the lace collar, and around the heavy coil of hair at the back of her head, Hattie had twined a spray of scarlet tecoma.

Save the faint red on her thin, flexible lips, her face was as stainless as that of the Hebrew Mary, in a carved ivory "Descent from the Cross," which hung over the mantelpiece.

As the boy watched her he thought the beautiful eyes were larger and deeper, and burned more brilliantly than ever before and the violet shadows beneath them seemed to widen day by day, telling of hard study and continued vigils. Pale and peaceful, patiently sad, without a trace of bitterness or harshness, her countenance might have served as a model for some which Ary Scheffer dimly saw in his rapt musings over "Wilhelm Meister."

"Oh! yonder comes mamma and--Uncle Grey! No; that is not my uncle Grey. Who can it be? It is--Sir Roger!"

Hattie ran out to meet her mother, who had been to New York; and Felix frowned, took up his crutches, and put on his hat.

Edna turned and went to her own room, and in a few moments Hattie brought her a package of letters, and a message from Mrs. Andrews, desiring her to come back to the sitting-room.

Glancing over the directions the governess saw that all the letters were from strangers, except one from Mrs. Murray, which she eagerly opened. The contents were melancholy and unexpected. Mr. Hammond had been very ill for weeks, was not now in immediate danger, but was confined to his room; and the physicians thought that he would never be well again. He had requested Mrs. Murray to write, and beg Edna to come to him, and remain in his house. Mrs. Powell was in Europe with Gertrude and Gordon, and the old man was alone in his home, Mrs. Murray and her son having taken care of him thus far. At the bottom of the page Mr. Hammond had scrawled almost illegibly: "My dear child, I need you. Come to me at once."

Mrs. Murray had added a postscript to tell her that if she would telegraph them upon what day she could arrange to start, Mr. Murray would come to New York for her.

Edna put the letter out of sight, and girded herself for a desperate battle with her famishing heart, which bounded wildly at the tempting joys spread almost within react. The yearning to go back to the dear old parsonage, to the revered teacher, to cheer and brighten his declining days, and, above all, to see Mr. Murray's face, to hear his voice once more, oh! the temptation was strong indeed, and the cost of resistance bitter beyond precedent. Having heard incidentally of the reconciliation that had taken place, she knew why Mr. Hammond so earnestly desired her presence in a house where Mr. Murray now spent much of his time; she knew all the arguments, all the pleadings to which she must listen, and she dared not trust her heart.

"Enter not into temptation!" was the warning which she uttered again and again to her own soul; and though she feared the pastor would be pained, she felt that he would not consider her ungrateful--knew that his warm, tender heart would understand hers.

Though she had always studiously endeavored to expel Mr. Murray from her thoughts, there came hours when his image conquered; when the longing, the intense wish to see him was overmastering; when she felt that she would give ten years of her life for one long look into his face, or for a picture of him.

Now, when she had only to say, "Come!" and he would be with her, she sternly denied her starving heart, and instead of bread gave it stones and serpents.

She took her pen to answer the letter, but a pang which she had learned to understand told her that she was not now strong enough; and, swallowing some medicine which Dr. Howell had prescribed, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up a crimson scarf and went down to the beach.

The serenity of her countenance had broken up in a fearful tempest, and her face writhed as she hurried along to overtake Felix. Just now she dreaded to be alone, and yet the only companionship she could endure was that of the feeble cripple, whom she had learned to love, as woman can love only when all her early idols are in the dust.

"Wait for me, Felix!"

The boy stopped, turned, and limped back to meet her, for there was a strange, pleading intonation in her mournfully sweet voice.

"What is the matter, Miss Earl? You look troubled."

"I only want to walk with you, for I feel lonely this evening."

"Miss Earl, have you seen Sir Roger Percival?"

"No, no; why should I see him? Felix, my darling, my little brother!

do not call me Miss Earl any longer. Call me Edna. Ah, child! I am utterly alone; I must have somebody to love me. My heart turns to you."

She pa.s.sed her arm around the boy's shoulders and leaned against him, while he rested on his crutches and looked up at her with fond pride.

"Edna! I have wanted to call you so since the day I first saw you.

You know very well that I love you better than every thing else in the world. If there is any good in me, I shall have to thank you for it; if ever I am useful, it will be your work. I am wicked still; but I never look at you without trying to be a better boy. You do not need me--you who are so great and gifted; whose writings everybody reads and admires; whose name is already famous. Oh! you can not need any one, and, least of all, a poor little helpless cripple! who can only worship you, and love the sound of your voice better than all the music that ever was played! If I thought that you, Miss Earl--whose book all the world is talking about--if I thought you really cared for me--Oh, Edna! Edna! I believe my heart would be too big for my poor little body!"

"Felix, we need each other. Do you suppose I would have followed you out here, if I did not prefer your society to that of others?"

"Something has happened since you sang the 'Three Fishers' and sat looking out of the window an hour ago. Your face has changed. What is it, Edna? Can't you trust me?"

"Yes. I received a letter which troubles me. It announces the feeble health of a dear and n.o.ble friend, who writes begging me to come to him, and nurse and remain with him as long as he lives. You need not start and shiver so--I am not going. I shall not leave you; but it distresses me to know that he has asked an impossible thing. Now you can understand why I did not wish to be alone."