"What more is there to tell?" he stammered.
"You know," she answered; "for God's sake, tell me!"
He looked at her with strange meaning. "You do not know what you are asking, Grace. I had hoped, if I had had my way, to keep from you much that would cause you unnecessary sorrow; and you could have left town, and even the country, so as to more completely take from you all association with this terrible grief. But you seem to pierce every veil, and I am not practised at concealing. But, O Grace! it will break your heart! It well-nigh breaks my own to think of it!"
"I know there is something very dreadful in the background," she said; "but I have prayed all night for strength to bear it, and I wish to know it now. Do not hide one thing from me, as you hope for heaven, Edmund."
He paused, and then, thinking that it would be best to get the shock over at once, said, intently watching her the while: "Grace, your father was called of God to be a priest. But God made him a martyr first; for such a murder is, in truth, a martyrdom."
She quivered from head to foot, but, recovering herself, she said: "I had suspected something like that."
"How, Grace?"
"I thought I heard some whispered words that were hushed as soon as I went in to that awful place where he lay, and I had seen you flush, and blanch, and hesitate when I questioned you. It was God's will. Tell me everything. But who"—and her voice broke here—"who could have been so lost as to hate him?"
"You know, when we left you," hurriedly began the young man, "we went straight to that meeting. Some were there who are as good as cured, and some others came from curiosity, or brought by their friends. A few were not sober. Your father said some prayers, as usual. Then he spoke to the men, as you know he can speak, very simply, very earnestly. There was a disturbance at the door. While he was speaking, half a dozen men, furious with drink, and roaring and swearing like demons, tried to get in. A few opposed them, and in the struggle the rickety door came down, and the long, old-fashioned iron hinge came loose from the rotten wood. One of the men took it up—it was Drake, the son of those poor old cripples. Another, who was of our men inside, wrenched it from him, and your father came down near the door to try and quiet the men. Those of the better sort grouped round him, fearing violence from the men in the front. I was close to him. I saw a man stoop, and the next minute Drake passed something to a comrade of his, who stole behind us, while he himself made a rush at me. I was still grappling with him, when there was a cry. The men sprang apart, and I heard your father say, 'O God!' just as he fell. I flung Drake to the ground with such force that he was stunned, and his head sounded dead on the stone floor. The men on our side had already caught the murderer, with the long iron hinge in his hand. It had struck your father on the back of the head, near the ear, and the scar on the forehead was made by falling forward. The police did not come till it was all over, and then they marched off Drake and the other man—Eldridge is his name, so I was told afterwards. I heard Drake say, with a horrible oath, that it was lucky for your father he had escaped so long; and the murderer grinned as he heard this remark. They seemed sober enough the minute it was over. Drake recovered very soon. The other men seemed stupid with horror. Grace, was it not a martyrdom?"
"Edmund," she answered solemnly, "it was the noblest death he could die, the only one befitting him. Die for the good of others! die for the spread of holiness, for the honor of principle! die that God might be better known and better served!—it was what he lived for; it was what he would have chosen to die for, had he had the choice. O my father! half my soul has gone with him, and my life shall be one eager longing to be made worthy to follow him. Edmund, is it not grand, is it not heroic? Has he not a glorious crown wherewith to meet my mother in heaven?"