The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864. Various

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      IV

      On Miss Edgar's return to her room, as she opened the door, a flood of fragrance rolled upon her. She put up her hand in hasty gesture, as if to rebuke or resist it, while a shade of displeasure crossed her face. On the piano lay a bouquet of flowers, richest in hue and fragrance that garden or hot-house knows. All the season's splendor seemed concentrated within those narrow bounds.

      The gas was already burning from a single jet, which she approached without observing the unusual fact, for the organist was accustomed in this room herself to control light and darkness.

      One glance only was needed to convince her through what avenue this flowery gift had come.

      Such gifts were offerings of more than common significance. Their renewal at this day seemed to disturb the organist as she turned the bouquet slowly in her hand and perceived how the old arrangement had been adhered to, from passion-flower to camellia, whitest white lily, and most delicate of roses; moss and vine-tendril, jessamine, heliotrope, violet, ivy: it was a work of Art consummating that of Nature, and complete.

      With the bouquet in her hand, she went and sat down at the window. It was easy to see, by the changes of countenance, that she was fast assuming the reins of a resolution. Would the door of the organist of St. Peter's never open but to guests ethereal as these? The question was somehow asked, and she could not choose but hear it.

      If he who sent the gift had pondered it, no less did she. And for result, at an early hour the next morning, the lady who had lived her life in sovereign independence and an almost absolute solitude, week after week these many months here in H–, was on her way to the studio of Adam von Gelhorn.

      As to the lady, what image has the reader conjured up to fancy? Any vision? She was the shadow of a woman. Rachel, in her last days, not more ethereal. Two pale-faced, blue-eyed women could not be more dissimilar than the organist and her soprano. For the organist plainly was herself, with merely an abatement, that might have risen from anxiety, work, or study; whatever her disturbance, she made no exhibition of it; it was always a tranquil face, and no storms or wrecks were discoverable in those deep blue eyes. What those few faint lines on her countenance might mean she does not choose you shall interpret; therefore attempt it not. But when you look at Sybella, it is sorrow you see; and she says as plainly as if you heard her voice,—

      "I have come to the great state where I expect nothing and am content."

      Yet content! Is it content you read in her face, in her smile? Is it satisfaction that can gaze out thus upon the world?

      It is sorrow rather,—and sorrow, with a questioning thereat, that seems prophetic of an answer that shall yet overthrow all the grim deductions, and restore the early imaginings, pure hopes, desires, and loving aims.

      You will choose to gaze rather after this shadowy vision of the fair, golden hair that lies tranquilly on the high and beautiful forehead; the face, pale as pallor itself, which seems to have no color, except in eyes and lips: the eyes so large and blue; the lips with their story of firm courage and true genius, so grand in calm. A figure, however, not likely to attract the many, but whom it held for once it held forever.

      So the organist came to the room of Adam von Gelhorn.

      She knew his working hours and habits, it seemed; at least, she did not fail to find him, and at work.

      As she stepped forward into the apartment, before whose door she had paused a moment, no trace of embarrassment or of irresolution was to be seen in face, eye, or movement.

      But the artist, who arose from his work, was taken by surprise.

      The armor of the world did not suffice to protect him at this moment. He was at the mercy of the woman who was here.

      "Mrs. Edgar!"

      "Adam."

      "Here!"

      "To thank you for the flowers, and to warn you that setting them in deserts is neither safe nor providential."

      And now her eyes ran round the room,—a flash in which was sheathed a smile of satisfaction and of friendly pride. She had come here full of reproaches, but surely there was some enchantment against her.

      "You will order a picture, perhaps?" said the artist, restored to at least an appearance of ease.

      But his eyes did not follow hers. They stopped with her: with some misgiving, some doubt, some perplexity, for he knew not perfectly the ground on which he stood.

      "You have been twice to see me, and both times have missed me," she said. "I was sorry for that. I did not know until then that you were living here."

      "But what does it mean, that nobody in H– has heard the voice yet? It has distracted me to think, perhaps, some harm has come to it."

      "Let that fear rest. The voice has had its day. I left it behind me at Havre. Any repetition of what we used to imagine were triumphs in the wonderful Düsseldorf days would now seem absurd, to the painter of these pictures, as to me."

      "They were triumphs! Besides, have you forgotten? Was it not in New York, in '58, that you imported the voice from Havre, left behind by mistake? What more could be asked than to inspire a town with enthusiasm, so that the dullest should feel the contagion? They were triumphs such as women have seldom achieved. If you disdain them, recollect that human nature is still the same, and all that I have done is under the inspiration of a voice that broke on me in Düsseldorf, and opened heaven. And people find some pleasure in my pictures."

      "Well may they! You, also. You have kept that power separate from sinners, unless I mistake. If it be my music, or the face yonder, that has helped you, or something else, unconfessed, perhaps unknown, you can, I perceive, at least love Art worthily, and be constant. As for St. Peter's, and myself, I find the fine organ there quite enough, with the boys to train and Miss Sybella Ives to instruct. It isn't much I can do for her, though; she is already a great and wonderful artist."

      "Is it possible you think so!"

      Was it really wonder at the judgment she heard in that exclamation? The voice sounded void of all except wonder,—yet wonder, perhaps, least of all was paramount in the pavilion of his secret thoughts.

      "Decidedly. But I only engaged there as organist. I find sufficient pleasure instructing the young lady, without feeling ambitious to appear there as her rival."

      "But you know she is not a professional singer": these words escaped the artist in spite of him. "She is an heiress of one of the wealthiest old families of this old town."

      "Nevertheless, she is growing so rarely in these days I would not for the world check that growth, as I see I might. Besides, I am selfish; it's best for me to keep to my engagement, and not volunteer anything."

      "And so we who have memories must rest content with them. I am glad you tell me, if it must be so. I have not haunted you, and I feel as if I almost deserved your thanks on that account. I've haunted the church, though, but"–

      "Well."

      "Miss Ives sings better than she did,—too well for such a girl in such a place."

      "Why?"

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