"It is a hermit.Well, methinks I've readIn romance tales of such strange beings oft;But surely ne'er did think these eyes should seeThe living, breathing, walking counterpart.Canst tell me where he dwells?Far in the woods,In a lone hut, apart from all his kind."
"It is a hermit.Well, methinks I've readIn romance tales of such strange beings oft;But surely ne'er did think these eyes should seeThe living, breathing, walking counterpart.Canst tell me where he dwells?Far in the woods,In a lone hut, apart from all his kind."
"It is a hermit.
Well, methinks I've read
In romance tales of such strange beings oft;
But surely ne'er did think these eyes should see
The living, breathing, walking counterpart.
Canst tell me where he dwells?
Far in the woods,
In a lone hut, apart from all his kind."
Old Play.
The pale moonbeams peeped through the rents and crevices of Dilly Danforth's wretched abode, as the poor woman sat on the hearth with Willie's head lying in her lap, while he read by the flickering fire-light from the pages of a well-worn Bible. The little fellow had never fully recovered from that long, painful illness that had nearly cost him his life, and from which it is very possible he would never have arisen but for those little bundles of firewood that were so providentially laid on poor Dilly's threshold, by some charitable, though unknown, hand. They still continued to be placed there, and it was well they were so, for Mrs. Danforth's health had failed so much she was not able to perform half her former amount of labor; and had it not been for these small armfuls of fuel, which very much resembled those Willie used to collect, the washerwoman and her boy must have perished during the long, cold winter season. Yes, perished in the very midst of Wimbledon; within a stone's throw of many a well-filled woodyard, and under the nose of a Mrs. Pimble's philanthropic efforts for the amelioration of her species. Dilly's neglect on the part of the many arose, not so much from inhumanity and covetousness, as from a wrong bias, which a few words had created in the people's minds. A report had passed through the village, several months before, purporting to come from a reliable source, which represented Mrs. Danforth as not so poor as she appeared; that she assumed her poverty-stricken garb and appearance to excite sympathy, and thus swindle, in a small way, from the purses of her wealthy neighbors. There is nothing of which people have a greater horror than of being humbugged, if they know it; so, for the most part, the Wimbledonians turned a deaf ear and cold shoulder on the washerwoman's sorrowful supplications for charity. Little Edith Malcome pitied the pale, sad face that appeared at the kitchen door every Monday morning, and always asked her father's permission to give her a basket of victuals to carry home, which were always received with many grateful expressions by the poor woman.
Edith sat by the drawing-room window, one bleak, stormy winter morning, watching the snow as it fell silently to the earth, when a man of singular appearance, walking slowly along the opposite side of the street, attracted her notice.
"O, father!" exclaimed she quickly, "come here; the oddest-looking man is going past."
Col. Malcome rose from his seat by the fire and approached the window. "What a disgusting appearance he presents!" said he, gazing on the slowly-receding figure. "It angers me to see a man degrade himself by such uncouth apparel."
"O, not disgusting! is he, father?" said Edith, "only odd and droll; and his face looked so pale and mild, I thought it really pretty. If he only wouldn't wear that short-waisted, long-tailed coat, with those funny little capes on the shoulders, and leave off that great tall-crowned hat with its broad, slouching brim, and have a little cane instead of that long pole he carries in his hand, he would be quite a pretty man,—don't you think so, father?"
"Well, really I don't know how he might look were he thus transformed," answered Col. Malcome. "I only expressed my opinion of his present appearance."
"Don't you know who he is?" asked Edith.
"No," said her father, returning to his seat.
"Well, I wish you would try and learn his name," pursued the fair girl.
"What for?" asked Col. M., resuming the perusal of the volume he had left to obey her summons to the window.
"Because I would like to know it," returned she. "I fancy he is some relation of that pale Dilly Danforth's, for he has just such mournful eyes."
"I do not wish to see them then," said her father, with some impatience of manner, "for I don't like the expression of that woman's eyes."
"They are very sad," said Edith, "but sorrow has made them so. I think they were once very beautiful. But won't you learn this strange man's name? Perhaps he is very poor, and we could alleviate his wants by kind charities."
"No," answered Col. M. in a tone which dismissed the subject; "I cannot run about the country to hunt up old stragglers for you to bestow alms upon."
Edith looked on her father's stern brow, and, feeling it was useless to urge her plea any longer, stole away to her own apartment, where she found Sylva engaged in feeding her canaries and furnishing them with fresh water. The little bright creatures were singing sweetly, but Edith did not heed their songs. She stood apart by a window, and gazed out on the falling snowflakes. At length she saw Rufus enter the yard, and soon heard him ascending the stairs. "Where have you been, brother?" she asked, as he came in, his face reddened by exposure to the cold, biting atmosphere.
"Down on the river, skating with some of the village boys," answered he, drawing a chair close to the glowing fire; "and O, such a fine time as we had! I shall be glad when we go to school, Edith; it will be so much more lively and pleasant."
"I shall be glad when the snow is gone, so I can run out doors, and sow my flower-beds," returned Edith, thoughtfully. Then she sat gazing in the fire a long time, as was always her wont when thinking deeply on any subject. Sylva had finished her care of the birds, and brought forth Fido from his little cot-bed in her room. He sprang into Edith's lap, then into Rufus', kissing their cheeks and evincing his joy at beholding them in various pleasing, expressive ways. But Edith pushed him away and told Sylva to put him to bed again. So the brisk little fellow was carried off, looking very sorry, and wailing piteously, as if he pleaded permission to remain by the warm fire.
Rufus was younger than his sister, and of an intelligence and refinement so far below hers, that she seldom evinced much pleasure or enjoyment in his society, but she looked towards him now with an eager expression of interest, as he said,
"O, Edith, I saw the funniest man this morning!"
"Where?" she asked quickly.
"Down by the side of the river among a clump of brushwood, gathering little bundles of sticks. Charlie Seaton and I spoke to him, but he did not answer us."
"Did he wear a long overcoat with small capes on the shoulders, and a slouching-brimmed hat?" inquired Edith earnestly.
"Yes," said Rufus. "Have you seen him, then?"
"Passing along in the street," returned she. "Did Charlie know his name?"
"No; but he said it was a man who lived alone in a small hut, far off in the forest, made of the boughs and branches of cedar trees, curiously twisted together; and he is thence styled theHermit of the Cedars."
"A hermit!" exclaimed Edith. "I have read of such beings in old books, but I never supposed they really existed, or at least never expected I should see one with my own eyes. I shall like this place better than ever, now; it will be so romantic to have a hermit in our vicinity. What do you suppose he was going to do with his bundles of sticks, Rufus?"
"Use them for firewood, probably," said he.
"But I should have thought he might have obtained that in the forest where he lives, and not been obliged to travel all the way down here, this stormy day, to pick up wood from among the snow, and then carry it two or three miles in his arms," said Edith, in a ruminating tone.
"O, hermits are strange beings, sis!" answered Rufus, whistling a vacant tune as he stood before the window gazing forth on the dismal storm which debarred him from his accustomed diversion of skating on the frozen surface of the river.
While his children were occupied with the preceding conversation, Col. Malcome had donned his fur-lined overcoat and stepped across the yard to Deacon Allen's cottage. The good people were quite embarrassed to behold so smart a visitor in their unostentatious little parlor, but the colonel, by his gentlemanly grace, soon placed them at their ease. After a few moments' conversation on general topics, he asked, casually enough, who was the owner of the fine mansion he had noticed in his rambles about town, with the appellation "Summer Home" sculptured on its marble gateway?
"O, that is Major Tom Howard's!" answered Deacon Allen. "His family have made it their abode for six or eight months every season since they owned it; and I understand, after their next return, it is to become their permanent residence."
"'Tis a delightful location," remarked Colonel M.; "a very large mansion. Has Mr. Howard a family corresponding with its dimensions?"
"O, no, only a wife and one child—a beautiful girl."
"How old is his daughter?" inquired the colonel.
"Well, about fourteen I should say; but seems much older from her matured growth and manners."
"Has Mr. Howard no sister living with him?" asked the visitor, carelessly.
"No," answered the deacon.
"And has he not lost one?"
"Not since he came among us; though his wife, I have understood, always dresses in black. She is a confirmed invalid and seldom seen."
"Then the family do not mingle much in society?" said the colonel.
The deacon shook his head.
"Somewhat aristocratic, probably," remarked the visitor.
"I should judge so," said the deacon. "They don't send Florence to school, but keep three tutors for her at home. She is very accomplished, but rather wilful and proud, they say."
"The effect of over-indulgence, perhaps," said the colonel, rising.
"Will you not honor us with another call?" asked Mrs. Allen.
"With pleasure," answered he, bowing a graceful good-morning to his delighted entertainers.
CHAPTER IX.
"A vestal priestess, proudly pureBut of a meek and quiet spirit;With soul all dauntless to endureAnd mood so calm that naught can stir it,Save when a thought most deeply thrillingHer eyes with gentlest tears is filling,Which seem with her true words to startFrom the deep fountain of her heart."
"A vestal priestess, proudly pureBut of a meek and quiet spirit;With soul all dauntless to endureAnd mood so calm that naught can stir it,Save when a thought most deeply thrillingHer eyes with gentlest tears is filling,Which seem with her true words to startFrom the deep fountain of her heart."
"A vestal priestess, proudly pure
But of a meek and quiet spirit;
With soul all dauntless to endure
And mood so calm that naught can stir it,
Save when a thought most deeply thrilling
Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling,
Which seem with her true words to start
From the deep fountain of her heart."
The fine parlors of Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful mansion were brilliantly illuminated. Warm fires glowed in the shining marble grates. Dim argand lamps bathed in soft light the rich furniture, carved cornices, and rare statuary which decorated the mantels. The élite of Wimbledon were assembling, and young Mrs. Edson moved lightly to and fro, receiving her numerous guests with graceful self-possession, and welcoming them to her home and heart with warm, earnest cordiality. They were nearly all strangers to her, as she had been but a few months installed mistress of Mr. Edson's splendid mansion; but she felt they were the people among whom she was henceforth to live and find her associates and friends. She had made one call, only, since her arrival in Wimbledon, and that on Col. Malcome's family, who were later comers than herself.
Louise Edson was graceful, brilliant, beautiful. O, what a wealth of thought and intellect was hers; what a broad, generous nature; what lightning-like perceptions, quick, far-seeing judgment, sparkling humor and sarcastic wit! She floated in a sea of exuberant life and beauty, which was fed continually from the exhaustless fountains of her own thought-wealthy soul. Her calm, clear eyes mirrored the bright fancies that flitted through her brain. The chestnut hair, brushed away from the youthful brow, revealed the tiny blue veins on the white expanding temples; while the high, straight nose and curved nostrils, with the sweet little mouth and tapering chin that smiled below, made up a face whose regular features were its least claim to beauty. It was the soul within which shone over these features and lighted them at times with supernatural loveliness. And was this brilliant being understood and appreciated by the man who had won her for his bride? Faugh!—we blush at our own stupidity in asking the question. Are such lofty souls ever appreciated by even one of the swarming masses that people the earth with their corporeal bodies? Let those answer who can.
But Louise, soaring as was her nature, was yet cursed with that weakness which too often possesses souls like hers, swaying e'en a more tyrant sceptre than in meaner breasts, as though in envious hate of those sky-aspiring pinions, and a demon wish to make them lick the dust. She was an orphan, with no relative save a maiden aunt, with whom she dwelt. She felt alone in the wide world, and she wanted—O, pity her, reader, if you can!—she wanted somebody to lean on, somebody to look up to. Could she not lean on her own strong intellect, and look up to the stars?—or could she not breathe forth her rich-laden soul in lofty song and romance, and lean upon the pillars of a world-wide fame? No, O, no! With all her strength of soul and intellect, she had weak woman's heart. She must love and be loved; and when the wealthy Mr. Leroy Edson knelt, an enamored knight, at the shrine of her youth and beauty, she gave him her hand. He thought he had done a most generous deed in thus raising a poor, lone orphan girl from comparative obscurity to a position among the highest circles of society. Her superior education and gem-freighted soul were all the fortune she brought him; a fortune greater than the treasures of Ind., but of whose princely value he had not the power to form the most distant estimate. To behold her tall, graceful figure flitting through his elegant mansion, performing some light household duty, receiving her guests or chatting and singing gayly through the long evenings, was, to him, life's whole of happiness. And was Louise altogether content with the man of her choice? No, or she had not gathered Wimbledon about her to make merry the midnight hour. People do not give fêtes to display their happiness. They give them too often to relieve a tedious monotony, to silence a gnawing discontent, and forget for the moment in hilarious excitement some uneasy foreboding of evil to come, or disquieting conviction that all, even now, is not as it should be.
Louise had not been many weeks Mrs. Edson, before she discovered the man she had taken for "better or worse" till death should separate them, was no helpmeet for her. They had not a thought or sympathy in common. He hired servants to execute her commands; bought her fine clothes, and fine books too, when he found these latter most delighted her; but he never wished to hear her read from them, and invariably yawned if she spoke of literary subjects. He was good-natured and fond of display, with a fair estimate of his own importance and standing in society. He regarded himself as one of the pillars of Wimbledon's wealth and prosperity;—remove him, and the whole structure would tremble and perhaps go down with a crash to rise no more. It took but a brief time for Louise to read her husband's soul through and through; and with her sharp, critical nature, that could not understand and would not overlook faults and follies to which her bosom was a stranger, she decided she hadmarried a fool. What was to be done? The act was voluntary on her part. True, a longer acquaintance between the parties might have led to a different result, but it was too late to think of that now. And this was the end of all her heart-longings for some one to love and reverence, to lean on and look up to! O, how intense was her agony! All her fine feelings wasted, her soul's wealth poured idly forth, and her rich life in its blooming years given to one who could not understand one of her lofty dreams or soaring aspirations. A falcon with sun-daring eyes tied to a grovelling buzzard! Was't not a hard fate, reader? Pity her, all ye who can,—pity her a great deal; mourn over her cruel wreck of happiness; and if in future years the warm, impassioned nature, goaded by its own unuttered pangs, driven wild by its rayless, hopeless desolation, is guilty of some irregularities, some acts which virtue and propriety can hardly sanction, O, remember her early sufferings, and be merciful!
Mr. Edson's party passed off pleasantly. All seemed delighted with their entertainment. The lord of the mansion was in great good-humor, and his beautiful wife the star of the evening. In a simple robe of dark blue cashmere, which fastened low over her white, sloping shoulders, and fitted closely her slender waist, while the ample folds swept the rich tapestry carpets, she moved among her guests like the embodiment of a graceful thought. Her luxuriant brown hair was gathered in bands at the back of her head; a massive chain and cross of gold ornamented her swan-like neck, and bands of the same material clasped her round, white arms. Small wonder that Mr. Edson should feel proud of his wife. The whole evening she was the centre of a delighted group. All flocked around to hear her brilliant conversation and gaze on her animated, expressive features. Col. Malcome and the gentle Edith engaged a large share of her attention and regard. The young girl was insensibly attracted by the affectionate interest evinced in her manner, and the sweet voice and beaming smile with which she addressed her. Col. Malcome expressed his admiration of the exquisite taste displayed in the furnishing of her parlors.
"I cannot tell you, Mrs. Edson," said he, "what I most admire in your elegant drawing-rooms. They are one harmonious whole; but if you were removed, I think I would very soon discover what was wanting to render them complete."
"Now," said Louise, "let me tell you at the commencement of our acquaintance, which I hope for my humble sake may continue to be cultivated, that I detest flattery of all things;" and she turned a smiling glance on him, as these piquant words fell from her pretty, red lips, rendered more than usually charming by the slight sarcastic curl she gave them.
"So do I," returned he; "but truth is not flattery."
"In the language of the poet," said she, laughing, "I will not seek to cope with you in compliment. Do you know I feel a lively interest in your beautiful daughter?"
"I am gratified to know it," said he, glancing on the bright creature at his side with an expressive glance. "Edith is a timid little thing; she would improve under your accomplished tuition. Not that I have the presumption to ask for her your care and instructions beyond what she might receive by a neighborly interchange of visits."
"O, say she may spend a portion of every week with me, when spring opens and the earth is divested of its garb of snow!" said Louise, in a tone of affectionate eagerness. "You cannot tell how her innocent gayety would lighten many of my weary hours."
Col. Malcome started as he heard these words, and turned a searching glance upon her. A slight blush suffused her cheek for a moment, but she soon regained her self-possession. It was one of her faults to give too free, unrestrained expression to her thoughts. They came welling up to her lips, and escaped ere she was aware.
For several moments he continued to gaze on her, and there was something in his countenance that instantly revealed to her quick eye that he had not only believed in the weariness she had so thoughtlessly expressed, but had also fathomed its cause. She felt displeased and irritated at her own want of caution and what she silently termed his presumption.
"Why do you look on me so strangely?" she asked at length.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said he, suddenly averting his gaze.
"Which I shall not give," returned she, with a slight, dignified movement of her queenly head, "unless you tell me what you think of me."
"AllI think of you, Mrs. Edson," said he, turning his face again toward hers, "perhaps would not please you to know."
"Yes, all," said Louise, "I will know all."
"Well, this is not the time or place for the disclosure," answered he.
She looked at him sharply as he pronounced these words. He smiled and added, "I should be monopolizing the time which belongs to your company."
"Ay, yes!" said she, "your words recall the duty I owe to my condescending guests;" and, bowing, she glided away and joined a company that surrounded the piano.
"You play, of course, Mrs. Edson," said a portly man with a benevolent countenance.
"Occasionally, though I have rather a dull ear," she answered, assuming the music-stool. Several light songs were performed with fine taste and skill, and received the warmest encomiums of her listeners. Another and another was called for, till at length she arose and said, "There are doubtless others here who play far better than myself. I have led the way, let them follow."
Col. Malcome arose from a sofa near by, on which he had thrown himself to listen to the fair musician, and assumed the seat she had vacated. A few prolonged notes, and then one of the most beautiful and intricate compositions of Beethoven, poured its sonorous strains on the ears of the assembly. The performer at length seemed to forget all around him, and at the end of the second chorus joined his own deep, rich tones with the instrument. All were delighted; but Louise, with her quick sensibilities, was thrilled to the centre of her soul. And she felt piqued and angry too; not that he had excelled her, for she was above such small envy, but——she could not tell why.
The party dispersed, and she found herself again in the solitude of her own apartment. That swelling chorus rolled through her midnight dreams, and echoed in her ears for many a day, as she superintended her domestic affairs, or sat down to the perusal of some treasured volume.
CHAPTER X.
"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,To get a daughter married off your hands,And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;For many men there be in this rude world.Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;But of their number is not this mild youthWho takes our daughter for his wedded bride."
"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,To get a daughter married off your hands,And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;For many men there be in this rude world.Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;But of their number is not this mild youthWho takes our daughter for his wedded bride."
"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,
To get a daughter married off your hands,
And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;
For many men there be in this rude world.
Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;
But of their number is not this mild youth
Who takes our daughter for his wedded bride."
Young Mrs. Edson's party was a three days' wonder. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, inasmuch as she was excluded from being one of the guests, availed herself of the next choicest privilege, and learned, as far as she was able, the dresses and conversation of those in attendance; and how Mrs. E. comported herself, and what she cooked for supper. She was shocked to learn the young wife wore a low-necked dress, and set her down at once as a low, vulgar woman, in whose company she should consider it a disgrace to be seen. Mrs. Pimble said another milk-sop had come among them to fawn and giggle in the face of the oppressor, man.
The Edson fête seemed to pave the way for others, and the winter season passed gayly and pleasantly among the wealthier classes of Wimbledon. Col. Malcome, his daughter, and Rufus, were present at all the social gatherings; and, in fact, the colonel's was getting to be a familiar and welcome face at almost every door in the village. He even called on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, one day, and addressed several civil speeches to the interesting Mary Madeline, who blushed crimson beneath the glance of hisunresistibleeyes, as she termed them, and trembled like an aspen, in her red silk gown. We do not know that we have ever spoken of the personal charms of this blooming young lady, and we will now attempt a brief daguerreotype for the reader's enlightenment and edification.
Her hair was of that peculiarly brilliant color noticed in that delightful esculent vegetable, the carrot, when boiled and prepared for table. She wore it twisted in a hard, horny knob at the top of her head, which strained her blue-green eyes, and gave them the expression of those of a choked grimalkin. Her nose turned divinely upwards; her blubber lips turned downwards with a grievous, watery expression. Her cheeks were red; so was her nose; so were her eyes at times, when the horny knob took a harder twist than usual. She had small, hairy ears, ornamented with enormous jewels. Her neck was short, and three stubborn warts, of the size of peas, stuck to its left side. Her waist might have been admired in the fifteenth century; but it was some nine inches too short by as many too broad, to elicit the admiration of the gallants of the present age, who rave, and go distracted about gossamer divinities scarcely six inches in circumference. She was about four feet four in stature, and her foot would have crushed Cinderella, and used her slipper for a thumb-cot. Such was Mary Madeline Mumbles in her eighteenth year, and never was child more like parent, than was this young lady like her doting, affectionate mamma.
We have been at considerable trouble to sketch Miss Mumbles at full length, that the reader may be able to form a correct idea of her appearance when she steps forth in full glory of silken bridal attire, on the arm of Mr. Theophilus Shaw, the promising young shoe-cobbler, upon whom Mr. Salsify had long since set his heart, as the proper man to become his future son-in-law. And Miss Mary, who lost her passion for Dick Giblet, after he shut the watch-dog in the kitchen-pantry,—a trick which had nearly cost her the loss of a beloved mother,—and finding she could not captivate the handsome Colonel Malcome with checkered aprons and broad lace, began, like a dutiful child, to receive the advances of the mild Theophilus more graciously, and had, after much maidenly confusion, consented to become his wife, when, as we have seen, the uncompromising colonel called, and distracted her with fear lest she had been too precipitate in accepting Theophilus, when a higher prize might be on the point of falling into her arms. But her apprehensions were banished after a while, as the colonel did not appear a second time, and the marriage was finally consummated; and Mary Madeline Mumbles became in due form Mrs. Theophilus Shaw. Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton officiated as bridesmaids, and a large party were invited to make merry on the occasion.
The bride's apparel was magnificent; so was the bridegroom's. We would attempt to describe it in detail, but dare not, knowing well we should fail to do it justice. Mrs. Salsify had the wicks of her parlor lamps full half an inch in length, and never seemed to notice how swiftly the camphene was disappearing, so elate was she with the prospect of marrying her beautiful daughter.
The happy couple were to make a short bridal excursion, and then return and dwell under the bride's parental roof for the present; Mrs. Salsify having vacated her bed-room, which the young people were going to use for kitchen, parlor, and shoemaker's shop. And a little pasteboard sign with the words, "Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," scrawled on it with lampblack, in an awkward, school-boy hand, was suspended by a string from the bed-room window.
"I am glad to have Mary Madeline settled in life," said Mrs. Mumbles, after the arrangements were all complete; "and the matter off my mind."
"So am I," answered her husband; "and I am glad she has made so good a match, too. Mr. Shaw will make a much better husband than Dick Giblet, or that black-headed Col. Malcome."
"O, a better one than that scapegrace of a Dick, of course!" said Mrs. Salsify, quickly; "but as to a better one than the colonel, I don't know about that. The advantages of his position are very great. Maddie would have been the tip-top of Wimbledon if she had married him."
"So she will be now, in time," returned Mr. S., confidently, "for I am 'rising rapidly in my profession.' Next summer I shall build the piazza and second story, and in ten years I'd like to see the man that can hold his head above Mr. Salsify Mumbles."
At these hopeful words, the wife fondly embraced her husband, and the loving couple fell to forming plans and projects for their brilliant future.
CHAPTER XI.
And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,—Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,But disappointment blasted all his hopes,And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.
And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,—Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,But disappointment blasted all his hopes,And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.
And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,—
Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,
But disappointment blasted all his hopes,
And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.
Cold and bleak roared the fierce wintry blasts through the broad, dense forest that stretched away to the north of Wimbledon. The stars sparkled with unwonted brilliancy over the clear blue firmament, as a quick step crackled along the narrow, icy path, and a dark form was seen hurrying toward a faint light that gleamed dimly through a dense clump of cedars. Then there was a sound as of bars withdrawn, and a bright, blazing hearth was revealed for a moment as the dark form entered, when all was hushed and silent again, save the dismal roar of the night wind through the surrounding pines.
"You are late to-night, uncle," said a tall, dark-haired youth, as he undid the fastenings of the wanderer's long overcoat, and removed his woollen mittens and wide-brimmed hat.
"What time do you conceive it to be?" asked the man, depositing his long staff in a corner, and approaching the glowing fire.
"Past midnight, I would suppose," answered the boy, piling up a quantity of books that were scattered over a small table, and with which he had been occupying himself through the long evening hours.
"O, not so late as that!" returned the man, drawing a rude chair before the fire and extending his small, thin hands to the grateful blaze. "The village clock in the old church tower at Wimbledon was on the stroke of ten when I laid my bundle of sticks in their accustomed place, and set my face homewards. I must have travelled at a laggard pace, if it is already midnight. Are you lonesome when I'm away, Edgar?" inquired he, turning his deep, melancholy eyes on the fair, open countenance of the youth.
"Sometimes I am," returned he; "I have been so to-night. A strange power seemed to possess my thoughts, to lead them through most hideous scenes, and dark, awful glooms and shadows enveloped my soul in mazes of doubt and fear."
"What a nervous boy you are!" said the man, "come and sit beside me, and I'll tell you of a project I've been revolving in my mind these several days." Edgar did as requested, and after a brief silence the hermit commenced:
"These six months, my lad, you have dwelt in this little hut in the forest, holding intercourse with no human being save myself. It is not right your boyhood and youth should pass in this manner. I have been selfish in keeping you all to myself, to cheer my solitude. 'Twas your parents' dying wish that you should receive all the advantages of education and travel. Your life has been, for the most part, spent in the toil of study, and I knew you needed an interval of relaxation and retirement to reïnvigorate your mental and physical energies. So I brought you to share the seclusion of my hermitage for a while. Grateful as has been your presence to me, I should wrong you, and forfeit the promise given your parents on their deathbeds, if I encouraged or permitted this retirement for a longer period than is necessary for your restoration to health and vigor. You know I am your guardian, Edgar. The fortune left for you by your father was entrusted to my care till you should attain a suitable age to have it transferred to your own hands, and ample provisions were made for your education and instruction in the painter's art. Do you see what I am coming at, Edgar?" he added, pausing in his discourse, and directing his gaze toward the boy, who sat listening attentively to his uncle's words.
"No, Uncle Ralph," answered the lad; "I don't know as I do, unless you are going to send me away from you to some distant school;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.
"Would you dislike to leave me, my boy?" said the hermit, a tear dropping from his melancholy eye.
"Ah, that would I!" returned Edgar, "for I have none to care for me in the wide world, save you."
"Pshaw, pshaw, boy! don't prate in that way, with your bright, curly locks," said the man, laying his thin hand softly on the youth's light, clustering hair. "When these locks are gray, and you have toiled and labored for fame and honors never gained, or that burned and furrowed the brow that wore them; when you have engaged in the world's weary strife and sunk by the wayside worn and disheartened by the contest; when friends have proved false;"—here the hermit's voice grew deeper and more vehement—"and when those who professed for you the fondest love turn coldly away to mock and scorn at your deep devotion, then, then, my boy, you will exclaim in bitterness, 'there are none to care for me!'"
He paused, and bowed his face on his hands. Edgar longed to comfort him, but knew not what to say.
The night wind roared solemnly without, the fire burned low on the rude hearth, and the little apartment, but illy protected from the searching blasts, grew chilly. Still the hermit sat silent, his bowed head resting between his small, attenuated hands. Edgar rose, brought the long overcoat and spread it over his shoulders, as a protection from the increasing cold. Then wrapping a blanket around his own light form, he stole softly to the window, and turned his gaze upward to the star-lighted heaven. He dearly loved to sit thus through the hushed midnight hours, and listen to the deep, heavy roaring of the mighty winds, as they swept through the surrounding forest, while his soul seemed borne away on their rushing currents, up and upward till her pinions brushed the starry palaces of angels and beatified spirits; and on, and on, with new splendors ever bursting on her ravished vision, till the elysium of light in the high heaven of heavens poured its bewildering glories upon her, and her weary wings fluttered to rest at last upon the bosom of the All-Holy.
Edgar was possessed of a temperament of the most imaginative order, deeply imbued with lofty, poetic sentiment, and a tendency to reserve and melancholy. His father had been an artist, and the sunny skies of Italy cast their bright glory over his tender years, warming to impassioned ardor the springs and fountains of his youthful bosom. Very few boys of his age and acquirements could have endured the seclusion in which he had dwelt for the last six months; but nothing could have been more consonant with the reserved, romantic disposition of Edgar; and the prospect of leaving the wild hut in the forest to go forth among the wide world's jostling crowds, caused him heart-throbbing pangs.
After a long silence the hermit roused himself. The room was cold and dark.
"Edgar?" said he, in a low, broken voice.
"I am here," answered the youth, rising, and feeling his way through the darkness to his uncle's side, "Won't you lie down now? The room is so cold, and there is no wood within to replenish the fire."
"Yes, my boy, I will lie down," said the hermit, "but not to sleep; the ghosts of past joys are with me to-night."
"Drive them away, uncle!" said the lad soothingly. "I am not disposed to sleep either. Let us lie down and cover us warm, and then you tell me of your plans and projects for my future, as you had commenced to do a few hours ago."
"No, Edgar, not to-night," answered the recluse. "Your young eyes will wax heavy with these midnight vigils. You must sleep, my boy, and to-morrow I will communicate my plans concerning you."
"As you say, uncle," returned Edgar, preparing to lie down.
Young, and happily ignorant of the cares and sorrows that distract the bosoms of maturer years, he was soon asleep.
The hermit moved to the window, and, after gazing forth some time in silence, murmured, "Wild, wild is the night! Heaven send she does not suffer. I left two bundles on her lonely sill, though my fingers grew stiff with cold ere I had gathered them. Thus do I feebly endeavor to atone for past misconduct. How the wind roars through the pines! O, what memories of long ago rush o'er my soul! I think of Mary as the time approaches when she will be near me. Shall I see her face again? God forbid!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot violently upon the stone floor. After a while he resumed his low soliloquy. "I fear for Edgar," he said, "lest the cold world chill his heart and undo his usefulness, as it has mine. He has my temperament, reserved, sensitive, and with the same accursed capacity for strong, undying attachment. What a fair prospect of fame had I! What honors were ready to crown me when that monster came and blasted them all! Such do I fear will be Edgar's fate. But he must go forth into the world; such was the wish of his parents. I can keep him near me a few months longer by sending him to the Wimbledon seminary, ere he must depart for some distant university or school of art. Then the great world will have opened before him, and I shall see him no more." The hermit suddenly ceased. Tears choked his utterance.
"Uncle!" said Edgar, starting quickly from his slumbers, "will you not come and lie down?"
"Yes, my boy," answered the sorrowing man, approaching the rude couch.
The wintry winds wailed on with piteous, mournful voices; but theHermit of the Cedarsslept at last,
"A troubled, dreamy sleep."
"A troubled, dreamy sleep."
"A troubled, dreamy sleep."
CHAPTER XII.
"Lawyers and doctors at your service.We are better offWithout them.True, you are,—but stillYou follow on their heels, and fawn,And flatter in their faces. If youWould leave your brawls and fights whichCall for physic, very soon you'd beBeyond their greedy clutches."
"Lawyers and doctors at your service.We are better offWithout them.True, you are,—but stillYou follow on their heels, and fawn,And flatter in their faces. If youWould leave your brawls and fights whichCall for physic, very soon you'd beBeyond their greedy clutches."
"Lawyers and doctors at your service.
We are better off
Without them.
True, you are,—but still
You follow on their heels, and fawn,
And flatter in their faces. If you
Would leave your brawls and fights which
Call for physic, very soon you'd be
Beyond their greedy clutches."
Old Play.
Reader, do you wonder where's the doctor whose saddle-bags may be supposed to contain the divers specifics for the "ills" which the "flesh" of Wimbledon is liable to become heir to? He doth exist, and, when occasion calls, we'll trot him forth.
And do you say this same Wimbledon has never a lawyer within its precincts,—and whoever heard of a village of several hundred inhabitants without at least half-a-dozen of these learned disciples of Blackstone to settle its wrongs and right its abuses?
Permit us to inform you, friend, that we consider lawyers dangerous animals; and the less men and women have to do with them, the better!
Nevertheless, there is one o' the craft in Wimbledon; and, if you had not been blind as a bat, you would have discovered, ere this, the sign of "Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., Attorney-at-Law," hung over the door of a small, black building in Mudget square. True, Mr. Pimble don't practise his profession much, for a very good reason; nobody is in want of his services; and that's the case with two thirds of the lawyers in Christendom.
Mrs. Pimble has converted her husband's office into a committee-room, and receptacle for hoards of pamphlets and papers, containing the proceedings of divers conventions held for the advancement of the cause of "Woman's Rights, and promulgation of Universal Freedom and Philanthropy."
Mrs. Pimble, the ardent reformist, is at present detained from her labors by the illness of her eldest son, Garrison. She has sent for the young female physician, Dr. Sarah Simcoe; but the word is, "pressing business detains that medical functionary at home,"—so, in direct violation of her established principles, she has been compelled to send for old Dr. Potipher, who considers himself, par excellence, the Esculapius of Wimbledon.
But Peggy Nonce comes blowing back from her hasty errand, and says the doctor is down to Mr. Moses Simcoe's. Mrs. Pimble wonders what should take a vile male practitioner to the house of an accomplished lady-physician. Peggy looks wise, as much as to say she could explain the mystery if she chose. But no one asks her to speak, so she goes into the kitchen, where Mr. Pimble sits in his dressing-gown and sheepskin slippers, shivering over an expiring fire. He lifts his head, as the bustling housekeeper begins to rattle the covers of the stove for the purpose of putting in some more wood, and asks feebly if "Dr. Potipher has arrived."
"No," answers Peggy. "He is down to Mr. Simcoe's."
"Who is sick there?" inquires Mr. Pimble.
"His wife."
"Why, she is a doctor herself! Can't she cure her own ailments?" says Mr. Pimble.
"Not always, I reckon," is Peggy's reply, while she is evidently vastly amused by something she does not choose to communicate at present.
Beside the bed of her sick boy stood Mrs. Pimble. She laid her hand on his forehead. It burned with fever, and his pulse was quick and hard. She was not much skilled in the "art medical," but she resolved to dosomethingfor her child, and forthwith proceeded to the kitchen and compounded a dish of catnip leaves and ginger. It exhaled a savory smell, and she felt quite confident it would cool off Garrison's fever. Placing a large bowl of the liquid by his bed-side, she bade him drink freely of it through the evening, while she was gone to the Reform Club, and when she came home she would call at Sister Simcoe's and obtain a prescription for him. The sick lad promised to do as she requested. His fever inclined him to drink incessantly, and ere his mother was ten yards from the house, he had guzzled the whole brimming bowlful. And still he called for drink, drink; which his insensate father carried to him in copious quantities as often as he desired it.
Mrs. Pimble proceeded on her way to the club room. For some reason there was but a thin attendance. None of the prominent members were present, and the little company decided to adjourn. Mrs. Pimble hurried round to Mrs. Simcoe's, to learn the cause of her absence and get the prescription for Garrison. The lady-doctor had been lecturing for several months in different towns of the county, and was but recently returned.
Mrs. Pimble entered without knocking, as was her wont, and walked into the young doctor's office, where she beheld, not the fair, feminine face of the rightful proprietor, but the ugly, rhubarb-colored visage of the village apothecary, Dr. Potipher, ensconced in the high-backed cushioned chair, fast asleep.
She turned back and opened the sitting-room door, and there stood Mr. Simcoe before a bed, holding a tea-tray, containing several vials and glasses. Mrs. Pimble started on seeing the night-capped head of Mrs. Simcoe raised feebly from the pillow, and darting forward, exclaimed, "Mercy, Sister Simcoe! what has befallen you?"
A smothered wail from beneath the bed-clothes now met her ear, and, turning down the blankets, she discovered two red-faced, bald-headed babies, wrapped in swaddling-clothes. She started back aghast.
"What are those things—what are those things?" she demanded, hysterically, pointing to the infant strangers.
"Simcoe's children!" groaned the pale lady-doctor, turning uneasily away from the little things that lay squirming and making such grimaces, as only very young babiescanmake, in the face of Mrs. Pimble. The alleged father stood there, chuckling over the smartness of his progeny. Mrs. Pimble darted one withering glance upon him, and walked away without another word. She roused old Dr. Potipher, and took him home with her. Well she did so, for Garrison was much worse than when she left him, and the doctor pronounced it a case of brain fever, which would require the nicest care and nursing.
Thus a wet blanket was most audaciously thrown upon the Woman's Rights' Reform, which was fain to arrest its progress in Wimbledon for a while. We shall see how long.
CHAPTER XIII.
"Thy hands are filled with early flowers,Thy step is on the wind;The innocent and keen delightOf youth is on thy mind;That glad fresh feeling that bestowsItself the gladness which it knows,The pure, the undefined;And thou art in that happy hourOf feeling's uncurbed, early power."
"Thy hands are filled with early flowers,Thy step is on the wind;The innocent and keen delightOf youth is on thy mind;That glad fresh feeling that bestowsItself the gladness which it knows,The pure, the undefined;And thou art in that happy hourOf feeling's uncurbed, early power."
"Thy hands are filled with early flowers,
Thy step is on the wind;
The innocent and keen delight
Of youth is on thy mind;
That glad fresh feeling that bestows
Itself the gladness which it knows,
The pure, the undefined;
And thou art in that happy hour
Of feeling's uncurbed, early power."