The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864. Various
and silent, as if more were to be said, and by her, she evidently faltered.
"Give me the canvas," she said.
"Your trophy."
He gave it her with a smile.
"No; but if a trophy, worth more than could be told. There's nobler work for you to do than painting pictures. Atonement,—reconciliation,—sacrifice."
"Where? when? how?"
He put these questions with a distinctness that required answer.
"Your heart will tell you."
He had his answer.
"And the portrait yonder, that will tell you. It is not hers, you will say. But it is not mine, nor a vision, except as you have glorified her. In spite of yourself, you are true. And in spite of herself, Sybella believes in you."
"Such a collection of incoherent fragments from the lips of an artist accustomed to treat of unities,—it is incomprehensible."
So the painter began; but he ended,—
"When I come back from battle, I will think of what you say. I do believe in my own integrity as firmly as I trust my loyalty."
There was a rare gentleness in the man's voice that seemed to say that mists were rising to envelop the summits of the mountains, and he looked forth, not to the bald heights, but along the purple heather-reaches, where any human feet might walk, finding pleasant paths, fair flowers, cool shades, and blessed reflections of heaven.
V
The rector of St. Peter's sat in the vestry-room, which he used for his study, when there came an interruption to the even tenor of his orthodox thinking.
Whoever sought him did so with a determination that carried the various doors between him and the study, and at last came the knock, of which he sat in momentary dread. It expressed the outsider so imperatively, that the minister at once laid aside his pen, and opened the door. And, alas! it was Saturday, p. m.,—Easter at hand!
He should have been glad, of course, of the cordial hand-grasp with which his stanch supporter, Gerald Deane, saluted him; but he had been interrupted in necessary work, and his face betrayed him. It told unqualified surprise, that, at such an hour, he had the honor of a visit from the warden.
The warden, however, was absorbed in his own business to an extent that prevented him from seeing what the minister's mood might be. He began to speak the moment he had thrown himself into the arm-chair opposite Mr. Muir.
"Do you know," said he, "what sort of person we've got here in our organist?"
Indignant was the speaker's voice, and indignant were his eyes; he spoke quick, breathed hard, showed all the signs of violent emotion.
The minister's bland face had a puzzled expression, as he answered,—
"A first-rate musician, Deane,—and a lady. That's about the extent of my information."
"A Rebel! and the wife of a Rebel!" was Deane's wrathful answer.
Hitherto, what had he not said or done in the way of supporting the organist?
"A Rebel?" exclaimed the minister, thrown suddenly off his guard.
He might have heard calumny uttered against one under his tender care by the way that single word burst from him.
"The wife of a Rebel general, and a spy!"
Deane's voice made one think of the Inquisition, and of inevitable forfeitures, unfailing executions of unrelenting judgments.
"For a spy, she makes poor use of her advantages," said the minister. "She's never anywhere, that I can learn, except in the church and her own room."
"I dare say anybody will believe that whom she chooses to have believe it. How do you or I know what she is? or where? or what she does? We're not the kind of men for her to take into confidence. She is evidently shrewd enough to see that it wouldn't be safe to tamper with us! But we must get rid of her, or we shall have the organ demolished and the church about our ears. Let the mob once suspect that we employ a spy here to do our music for us, and see what our chance would be! There's no use asking for proof. There's a young man in my storehouse, a contraband, who recognized her somewhere in the street this morning, and he says she is the wife of the Rebel General Edgar; and if it's true, and there's no question about that, I say she ought to be arrested."
"Pooh! pooh!"—the minister was thrown off his guard, and failed to estimate aright the kind of patriotism he bluffed off with so little ceremony;—"the negro"–
"Negro! face as white as mine, Sir! Well, yes, negro, I suppose,—slave, any way,—do you want him summoned in here? Do you want to see him? He gives his testimony intelligently enough. Or shall we send for Mrs. Edgar? For it's high time she were thrown on her own resources, instead of being maintained at our expense for the benefit of the enemy."
Precisely as he finished speaking sounded a peal from the great organ, and Mr. Deane just half understood the look on the minister's face as he turned from him to listen.
A better understanding would have kept him silent longer; but, unable to control himself, he said,—
"We're buying that at too high a price. Better go back to drunken Mallard,—a great sight better. McClellan would tell us so; so would Jeff Davis."
"What can be done?" asked the minister.
Never had that good man looked and felt so helpless as at this moment. His words, and still more his look, vexed and surprised the ever-ready Deane.
"Exactly what would be done, if the woman played fifty times worse, and looked like a beggar. A medium performer with an ugly visage would not find us stumbling against duty. No respect should be shown to persons, when such a charge is brought up. The facts must be tested, and Miss Edgar—What's the reason she never owned she was a Mrs.?"
"Why, Deane, did you ever hear me address her or speak of her in any other way? I knew she was a married woman."
"Did you know she had a husband living, too?"
"No."
Mr. Muir spoke as if it were beneath him to suppose that use was to be made, to the damage of the woman, of such acknowledgment.
"It don't look well that people in general are ignorant of the fact. I tell you it's suspicious. It strikes me I never heard anybody call her anything but Miss Edgar. Excuse me; of course you knew better."
"Yes, and some beside myself. She told me she was a married woman. But really, Deane, we couldn't expect, especially of a woman who has been living for months, as it seems to me, in absolute retirement, that she should go about making explanations in regard to her private affairs. I have inferred, I confess, that she had in some unfortunate manner terminated her union with her husband; and I have always hoped that her coming here might prove a providential, happy thing,—that somehow she might find her way out of trouble, and resume, what has evidently been broken off, a peaceful and happy life. She is familiar with happiness."
"Well, Sir!" Deane exploded on the preacher's mildness, of which he had grown in the last few seconds terribly impatient, "I don't know how far Christian charity may go,—a great way farther, it seems, than it need to, if it will submit to the impertinence of a traitor's coming among us and accepting our support, at the same time that she takes advantage of her sex and position to betray us. For that business stands just where it did before. There isn't the slightest doubt that she will find abettors enough who are as false and daring and impudent as herself. Whether we shall suffer them is a question, it seems. Excuse my plain speaking, but I am surprised all round."
"No more than I am, Mr. Deane. It is, as you say, our duty immediately to examine into this business; but we cannot, look at it as you will, we cannot do so with too much caution. It is a disagreeable errand for a man to undertake. Let us at least defer judgment for the present. I will speak to Mrs. Edgar about it myself, and communicate the result immediately to you. Do you prefer to remain here till I return?"
He arose as he spoke, but Deane rose also. It had at last penetrated