She leaned her cheek down on the boy"s head, and both stood silent, looking over the wide heaving waste of immemorial waters.
A glowing orange sky overarched an orange ocean, which slowly became in turn ruby, and rose, and violet, and pearly gray, powdered with a few dim stars. As the rising waves broke along the beach, the stiffening breeze bent the spray till it streamed like silvery plumes; and the low musical murmur swelled to a monotonous moan, that seemed to come over the darkening waters like wails of the lost from some far, far "isles of the sea."
Awed by the mysterious solemnity which ever broods over the ocean, Felix slowly repeated that dirge of Tennyson"s, "Break, break, break!" and when he commenced the last verse, Edna"s voice, low and quivering, joined his.
Out of the eastern sea, up through gauzy cloud-bars, rose the moon, round, radiant, almost full, shaking off the mists, burnishing the waves with a ghostly l.u.s.tre.
The wind rose and fluttered Edna"s scarlet scarf like a pirate"s pennon, and the low moan became a deep, sullen, ominous mutter.
"There will be a gale before daylight; it is brewing down yonder at the southwest. The wind has veered since we came out. There! did you notice what a savage snort there was in that last gust?"
Felix pointed to the distant water-line, where now and then a bluish flash of lightning showed the teeth of the storm raging far away under southern constellations, extinguishing for a time the golden flame of Canopus.
"Yes, you must go in, Felix. I ought not to have kept you out so long."
Reluctantly she turned from the beach, and they had proceeded but a few yards in the direction of the house when they met Mrs. Andrews and her guest.
"Felix, my son! Too late, too late for you! Come in with me. Miss Earl, as you are so fond of the beach, I hope you will show Sir Roger all its beauties. I commit him to your care."
She went toward the house with her boy, and as Sir Roger took Edna"s hand and bent forward, looking eagerly into her face, she saw a pained and startled expression cross his own.
"Miss Earl, did you receive a letter from me written immediately after the perusal of your book?"
"Yes, Sir Roger, and your cordial congratulations and flattering opinion were, I a.s.sure you, exceedingly gratifying, especially as you were among the first who found anything in it to praise."
"You have no idea with what intense interest I have watched its reception at the hands of the press, and I think the shallow, flippant criticisms were almost as nauseous to me as they must have been to you. Your book has had a fierce struggle with these self- consecrated, red-handed, high-priests of the literary Yama; but its success is now established, and I bring you news of its advent in England, where it has been republished. You can well afford to exclaim with Drayton:
"We that calumnious critic may aschew, That blasteth all things with his poisoned breath.
Detracting what laboriously we do Only with that which he but idly saith."
The numerous a.s.saults made upon you reminded me constantly of the remarks of Blackwood a year or two since: "Formerly critics were as scarce and formidable, and consequently as well known as mastiffs in a country parish; but now no luckless traveller can show his face in a village without finding a whole pack yelping at his heels."
Fortunately, Miss Earl, though they show their teeth, and are evidently anxious to mangle, they are not strong enough to do much harm. Have you answered any of these attacks?"
"No, sir. Had I ever commenced filling the sieve of the Danaides, I should have time for nothing else. If you will not regard me as exceedingly presumptuous, and utterly ridiculous by the comparison, I will add that, with reference to unfavorable criticism, I have followed the ill.u.s.trious example of Buffon, who said, when critics opened their batteries, "Je n"ai jamais repondu a aucune critique, et je garderai le meme silence sur celle-ci.""
"But, my dear Miss Earl, I see that you have been accused of plagiarizing. Have you not refuted this statement?"
"Again I find Buffon"s words rising to answer for me, as they did for himself under similar circ.u.mstances, "Il vaut mieux laisser ces mauvaises gens dans l"incert.i.tude!" Moreover, sir, I have no right to complain, for if it is necessary in well-regulated munic.i.p.alities to have inspectors of all other commodities, why not of books also!
I do not object to the rigid balancing--I wish to pa.s.s for no more than I weigh; but I do feel inclined to protest sometimes, when I see myself denounced simply because the scales are too small to hold what is ambitiously piled upon them, and my book is either thrown out pettishly, or whittled and sc.r.a.ped down to fit the scales. The storm, Sir Roger, was very severe at first--nay, it is not yet ended; but I hope, I believe I shall weather it safely. If my literary bark had proved unworthy and sprung a leak and foundered, it would only have shown that it did not deserve to live; that it was better it should go down alone and early, than when attempting to pilot others on the rough unknown sea of letters. I can not agree with you in thinking that critics are more abundant now than formerly. More books are written, and consequently more are tabooed; but the history of literature proves that, from the days of Congreve,
"Critics to plays for the same end resort That surgeons wait on trials in a court; For innocence condemned they"ve no respect Provided they"ve a body to dissect."
After all, it cannot be denied that some of the best portions of Byron"s and Pope"s writings were scourged out of them by the scorpion thongs of adverse criticism; and the virulence of the Xenien Sturm waged by Schiller and Goethe against the army of critics who a.s.saulted them, attests the fact that even appreciative Germany sometimes nods in her critical councils. Certainly I have had my share of scourging; for my critics have most religiously observed the warning of "Spare the rod and spoil the child"; and henceforth if my writings are not model, well-behaved, puritanical literary children, my censors must be exonerated from all blame, and I will give testimony in favor of the zeal and punctuality of these self-elected officials of the public whipping-post. The canons have not varied one iota for ages; if authors merely reflect the ordinary normal aspect of society, without melodramatic exaggeration or ludicrous caricature, they are voted trite, humdrum, commonplace, and live no longer than their contemporaries. If they venture a step in advance, and attempt to lead, to lift up the ma.s.ses, or to elevate the standard of thought and extend its range, they are scoffed at as pedants, and die unhonored prophets; and just as the tomb is sealed above them, people peer more closely into their books, and whisper, "There is something here after all; great men have been among us." The next generation chants paeans, and casts chaplets on the graves, and so the world rings with the names of ghosts, and fame pours generous libations to appease the manes of genius slaughtered on the altar of criticism. Once Schiller said, "Against public stupidity the G.o.ds themselves are powerless." Since then, that same public lifted him to the pedestal of a demi-G.o.d; now all Germany proudly claims him; and who shall tell us where sleep his long-forgotten critics? Such has been the history of the race since Homer groped through vine-clad Chios, and poor Dante was hunted from city to city. If the great hierarchs of literature are sometimes stabbed while ministering at the shrine, what can we humble acolytes expect but to be scourged entirely out of the temple? We all get our dues at last; for yonder, among the stars, Astraea laughs at man"s valuations, and shakes her infallible balance and re-weighs us."
She had crossed her arms on the low stone wall that enclosed the lawn, and bending forward, the moon shone full on her face, and her eyes and her thoughts went out to sea. Her companion stood watching her countenance, and some strange expression there recalled to his mind that vivid description:
"And then she raised her head, and upward cast Wild looks from HOMELESS EYES, whose liquid light Gleamed out between the folds of blue-black hair, As gleam twin lakes between the purple peaks Of deep Parna.s.sus, at the mournful moon."
After a short silence, Sir Roger said:
"Miss Earl, I can find no triumph written on your features, and I doubt whether you realize how very proud your friends are of your success."
"As yet, sir, it is not a.s.sured. My next book will determine my status in literature; and I have too much to accomplish--I have achieved too little, to pause and look back, and pat my own shoulder, and cry, Io triumphe! I am not so indifferent as you seem to imagine. Praise gratifies, and censure pains me; but I value both as mere gauges of my work, indexing the amount of good I may or may not hope to effect. I wish to be popular--that is natural, and, surely, pardonable; but I desire it not as an end, but as a means to an end--usefulness to my fellow-creatures;
"And whether crowned or crownless, when I fall, It matters not, so as G.o.d"s work is done."
I love my race, I honor my race; I believe that human nature, sublimated by Christianity, is capable of attaining n.o.bler heights than pagan philosophers and infidel seers ever dreamed of. And because my heart yearns toward my fellow-creatures, I want to clasp one hand in the warm throbbing palm of sinful humanity, and with the other hold up the lamp that G.o.d gave me to carry through this world, and so struggle onward, heavenward, with this generation of men and women. I claim no clear Uriel vision, now and then I stumble and grope; but at least I try to keep my little lamp trimmed, and I am not so blind as some, who reel and stagger in the Maremme of crime and fashionable vice. As a pilgrim toiling through a world of sinful temptation, and the night of time where the stars are often shrouded, I cry to those beyond and above me, "Hold high your lights, that I may see my way!" and to those behind and below me, "Brothers! sisters! come on, come up!" Ah! these steeps of human life are hard enough to climb when each shares his light and divides his neighbor"s grievous burden. G.o.d help us all to help one another!
Mecca pilgrims stop in the Valley of Muna to stone the Devil; sometimes I fear that in the Muna of life we only stone each other and martyr Stephen. Last week I read a lecture on architecture, and since then I find myself repeating one of the pa.s.sages: "And therefore, lastly and chiefly, you must love the creatures to whom you minister, your fellow-men; for if you do not love them, not only will you be little interested in the pa.s.sing events of life, but in all your gazing at humanity, you will be apt to be struck only by outside form, and not by expression. It is only kindness and tenderness which will ever enable you to see what beauty there is in the dark eyes that are sunk with weeping, and in the paleness of those fixed faces which the earth"s adversity has compa.s.sed about, till they shine in their patience like dying watch-fires through twilight." In some sort I think we are all mechanics--moral architects, designing as apprentices on the sands of time that which, as master builders, we shall surely erect on the jasper pavements of eternity. So let us all heed the n.o.ble words."
She seemed talking rather to herself, or to the surging sea where her eyes rested, than to Sir Roger; and as he noticed the pa.s.sionless pallor of her face, he sighed, and put his hands on hers.
"Come, walk with me on the beach, and let me tell you why I came back to New York, instead of sailing from Canada, as I once intended."
A half hour elapsed, and Mrs. Andrews, who was sitting alone on the piazza, saw the governess coming slowly up the walk. As she ascended the steps, the lady of the house exclaimed:
"Where is Sir Roger?"
"He has gone."
"Well, my dear! Pardon me for antic.i.p.ating you, but as I happen to know all about the affair, accept my congratulations. You are the luckiest woman in America."
Mrs. Andrews put her arm around Edna"s waist, but something in the countenance astonished and disappointed her.
"Mrs. Andrews, Sir Roger sails to-morrow for England. He desired me to beg that you would excuse him for not coming to bid you good- bye."
"Sails to-morrow! When does he return to America?"
"Probably never."
"Edna Earl, you are an idiot! You may have any amount of genius, but certainly not one grain of common sense! I have no patience with you! I had set my heart on seeing you his wife."
"But, unfortunately for me, I could not set my heart on him. I am very sorry. I wish we had never met, for indeed I like Sir Roger.
But it is useless to discuss what is past and irremediable. Where are the children?"
"Asleep, I suppose. After all, show me "a gifted woman, a genius,"
and I will show you a fool."
Mrs. Andrews bit her lip, and walked off; and Edna went upstairs to Felix"s room.
The boy was sitting by the open window, watching gray clouds trailing across the moon, checkering the face of the mighty deep, now with shadow, now with sheen. So absorbed was he in his communing with the mysterious spirit of the sea, that he did not notice the entrance of the governess until he felt her hand on his shoulder.
"Ah! have you come at last? Edna, I was wishing for you a little while ago, for as I sat looking over the waves, a pretty thought came into my mind, and I want to tell you about it. Last week, you remember, we were reading about Antony and Cleopatra; and just now, while I was watching a large star yonder making a shining track across the sea, a ragged, hungry-looking cloud crept up, and nibbled at the edge of the star, and swallowed it! And I called the cloud Cleopatra swallowing her pearl!"
Edna looked wonderingly into the boy"s bright eyes, and drew his head to her shoulder.
"My dear Felix, are you sure you never heard that same thought read or quoted? It is beautiful, but this is not the first time I have heard it. Think, my dear little boy; try to remember where you saw it written."
"Indeed, Edna, I never saw it anywhere. I am sure I never heard it either; for it seemed quite new when it bounced into my mind just now. Who else ever thought of it?"