The spring dawned bright and beautiful over Wimbledon, and when the first blue-birds sang on the budding boughs, and the grass was springing green in streets and by-ways, the tenants of "Summer Home" returned; and a bright young girl, with dark abundant hair hanging in a rich profusion of shiny ringlets over her white, uncovered shoulders, was seen skipping lightly through the gardens and grounds, pruning shrubs, transplanting flowers, and training truant vines over arbors and alcoves.
It was Florence Howard, resplendent in the light of her girlish beauty, and buoyant overflow of health and happiness. Often, in her morning strolls, she noticed a tall, graceful boy, in a blue frock-coat, with a shining morocco cap placed over a head of light curly hair, passing along, satchel in hand, to the seminary on the hill, and every night she saw him disappear within the forest that lay to the northward of her father's residence.
She wondered what became of him, for the woods were wide and deep, and it must be a long way to the other side. There surely could be no habitation within their precincts, and Florence's curiosity was strongly excited to fathom the mystery, which in her eyes surrounded the fair-haired youth.
"Father," said she one evening, as she sat beside him on the western terrace, "I don't like being confined herewith these stupid tutors. I wish you would let me go to school at the seminary."
"Your advantages at home are far superior, my daughter," answered her father.
"O, but I should like the air and exercise, and the company of children of my own age so much," pursued she, poking her little fingers through her father's silvered locks, and leaning up against his side in a very coaxing attitude. "I shall become the saddest mope in the world if I am cooped up here."
"I apprehend small danger of that," returned her father, laughing, "for you have appeared to me, since our last return, a wilder romp than ever before."
"O, that's only because I'm so glad to get to this delightful place again, and to know we are to go away no more!" said she. "It will wear off after a while, and I shall become silent and solemn as a nun. Won't you let me go to the seminary just one term? I can still take my music lessons of Mrs. Sayles here at home, and I know my French and Italian masters would like a respite from their duties." She stood looking earnestly in her father's face.
"You smooth the way very well, my little daughter," said he, patting her rosy cheek; "but I incline to think you had better continue your studies in the old way."
Florence looked disappointed, and turned slowly from his side. Her dejected appearance touched his affectionate heart, and he called her back. She came bounding toward him, with new hope dancing in her dark liquid eyes.
"If you can obtain your mother's consent," said he, "I will not object to your attending school at the seminary one term, as you seem so much to desire it."
"O, thank you, thank you, dear father!" exclaimed the glad girl, putting her arms round his neck, and giving him a grateful kiss on either cheek, "and may I commence to-morrow? that is, if mamma consents to my going?"
"To-morrow?" said he, "had you not better wait, as this term is so far advanced, and commence with a new one?"
"O, no!" returned she, "I should rather begin at once."
"Well, go in, little Miss Rattle, and see what your sage mamma says on the subject," said her father, smiling at her earnest countenance.
Away went Florence, with the lightness of a bird up the hall stairs, and, giving a light tap at a closed door, stood dancing softly on tip-toe, as she waited a summons to enter. "Who's there?" asked a low, trembling voice at length.
"Me, mamma," answered Florence; "may I come in? I've something to ask you."
The door was opened by a short, thin woman, of dark complexion, small peering black eyes, and slick, shining hair of the same hue, which was arranged with an air of nicety and precision.
Florence entered and glanced with an expression of alarm toward the drawn curtains of a mahogany bedstead. "Is mother worse?" she asked in a voice but a breath above a whisper.
"She has had one of her bleeding spells," answered the small, dark woman. "Where is your father?"
"On the lower terrace; shall I call him?"
"No, I will go to him," returned the woman, "if you will remain by your mother a while."
"O, yes, I shall be delighted to stay!" said Florence, approaching the couch.
"You must not talk to her," remarked the woman; "she needs to be very quiet."
"I won't speak a word unless she asks me to," answered the young girl, sitting down by the bed-side, as the dark woman disappeared, closing the door softly behind her.
After a few moments' silence the sick woman stirred and parted the curtains slightly with her wan hand. Florence rose. "Do you want anything, mother?" she asked.
"No, my dear, I have been asleep. Where is Hannah?"
"Gone below. I think to send father for Dr. Potipher."
"I hope not," said the invalid; "it is not necessary. This is only one of my common attacks. I shall be as well as usual in a few days."
"Do you think so, mother?" asked Florence, brightening. "I feared you were very ill. I had something particular to say, but I was not going to say it, for fear of hurting you."
"What is it, dear?" inquired the mother.
"Something papa and I have been talking about down on the piazza to-night."
"Well," said the sick woman, looking affectionately on the earnest expression and downcast lids of Florence's large hazel eyes.
"I asked him to let me go to the seminary this term, and he said if you had no objection I might do so," said the hesitating girl, at length, with a long-drawn breath, as though she had relieved her bosom of a heavy burden.
The pale lady was silent a few moments, as if revolving the matter in her mind. Then she spoke suddenly. "You said your father had no objection?"
"Yes," answered Florence.
"Then, of course, I have none," said the woman, turning over on her pillow and settling herself as if to sleep again.
Florence was about to pour forth her gratitude for the favor shown her request, when the dark-browed woman entered, shook her finger at her, and bade her go below. Florence's eyes flashed back her answer.
"I'll go at my mother's request, not otherwise," said she.
A dark frown gathered on the woman's features, and the invalid said tremblingly, "I would like to sleep; perhaps you had better go and stay with your father a while, my dear."
Florence kissed the pale brow, and then moved toward the door with noiseless tread. The dark woman cast a glance of angry triumph upon her, which was returned by one of fearless defiance.
Since Florence's earliest recollection her mother had been an invalid, shunning society and subject to long fits of depression, and, upon the slightest excitement, to severe attacks of palpitation and bleeding from the chest, which frequently prostrated her on a bed of suffering for weeks. Hannah Doliver had always been her attendant, though Florence, in the simplicity of her young heart, often wondered that her parents should retain her in their service; for she was a bold, impudent, violent-tempered woman, who set up her will for law in the household, and seemed to exercise an almost tyrannic sway over the weak invalid, who appeared to stand in awe of her slightest nod. She showed a marked dislike for Florence, and delighted in tantalizing her, when she was a little child, and thwarting her wishes. As the fair girl grew older, she resolved the arbitrary woman should not govern or intimidate her, and met all her attempts at petty tyranny with a bold, undaunted spirit, which seemed to increase the woman's hatred. Florence once asked her father why he did not send Hannah Doliver away.
"Your mother could not do without her, my child," said he.
"I think she could do better without her than with her," returned Florence, "for she is cross to mamma, and makes her do everything just as she says."
"O, no, I guess not," said her father.
"But she does," persisted Florence, "and I would not have her in the house." Major Howard patted his little daughter's cheek and said, "When you are older, Florence, you will understand a great many things that seem dark and mysterious to you now."
Florence was not satisfied, but she turned away, and never mentioned the subject to her father again.
Early the next morning the glad-hearted girl was astir, getting in readiness for school. She gathered her books together and placed them in a satchel of crimson broadcloth, which she had just embroidered, with bright German wools, in wreaths of spotted daisies and wild columbines. Then donning a blue muslin frock, dotted over with small silver stars, and tying on a black silk apron with open velvet pockets, from one of which peeped a snowy lace-edged handkerchief, she took satchel, gloves and gypsy hat, and descended to the parlor, ensconcing herself in a nook of the north window, where she stood gazing over the hill-tops toward the distant forest with eager eyes to behold the fair-haired boy emerge from its recesses.
At length he appeared, and she watched him till he was descending the hill which sloped past her father's mansion. Then, hastily tying on her hat and seizing her satchel, she was hurrying through the hall to gain the street, when she encountered Hannah Doliver.
"Where are you going?" demanded she in a sharp tone.
"To school," answered Florence, rushing past her.
"By whose leave, I wonder?" said the woman, running after her, to drag her back. But the nimble-footed girl was too swift for her, and she returned to the house muttering angrily to herself. Meantime, Florence bounded over the gravelled walks, and was emerging from the gateway just as the lad, in the morocco cap, was passing by. He arrested his steps on beholding her, and bowed gracefully. She returned his salute, and said, blushingly, "I am going to school up to the seminary. May I walk with you?"
"Certainly, Miss Howard," answered he; "I shall be grateful for your company."
"You know my name," said she, advancing to his side; "I am ignorant of yours."
"Edgar Lindenwood," returned he, and the two walked on together.
CHAPTER XIV.
——"She has dark violet eyes,A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheekThe blushing blood miraculous doth rangeFrom sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaksHer soul is shining through her earnest faceAs shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,It cannot gild her gold with all its words."
——"She has dark violet eyes,A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheekThe blushing blood miraculous doth rangeFrom sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaksHer soul is shining through her earnest faceAs shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,It cannot gild her gold with all its words."
——"She has dark violet eyes,
A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek
The blushing blood miraculous doth range
From sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaks
Her soul is shining through her earnest face
As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.
My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,
It cannot gild her gold with all its words."
Alexander Smith.
There was a neat, little vine-covered cottage standing a few doors removed from the elegant mansion of Leroy Edson, and in it dwelt Mrs. Stanhope, a widow lady and her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton, a female of uncertain age, as authors say, and possessed of the peculiarities common to persons of her class. They were not poor, nor were they rich, but made a good living, as the world goes, by taking in needlework. Young Mrs. Edson frequently dropped in to pass an hour in social converse with Mrs. Stanhope, who was a pleasant, agreeable woman. Miss Martha, too, always wore a smile on her sharp-featured face when the lovely young wife appeared at the cottage. As they were simple, unostentatious people, living in a retired and quiet way, she laid aside all form and ceremony, and was accustomed to run in at any hour, in whatever garb she chanced to be.
On a bright May morning, as the ladies had made all things tidy, and were seating themselves to their daily avocation of the needle, they heard the garden gate swing, and beheld Mrs. Edson approaching in her little white sun-bonnet and spotted muslin dressing-gown, open from the waist downwards, revealing a fine cambric skirt, wrought in several rows of vines and deep scolloped edges. Mrs. Stanhope met her visitor on the porch.
"Good-morning," said she, extending her hand; "I am happy to see you:—how beautiful and eloquent you are looking!"
"O, this glorious, sweet-breathed morning, with its birds and flowers, is enough to brighten the most torpid thing into animation!" exclaimed Louise, grasping her friend's hand warmly. "You don't know how I love everything and everybody to-day, Mrs. Stanhope," she continued, in a tone of earnest enthusiasm, as she entered the little parlor, still holding the good woman by one hand, while she extended the other to Miss Pinkerton, who rose from her work to receive her, and drew an old-fashioned, straight-backed rocking-chair, cushioned and lined with gay copperplate, up before the window for her comfort. "I must not sit long," said Louise, assuming the proffered seat, "for I have left my house quite alone; the servants having gone out on errands for themselves. I tried one thing and another to divert myself, but the birds sang so sweetly, the sun was so bright, and everything seemed to say, up and away. So I donned my sun-bonnet and ran over here as the nicest, quietest little nook I could fly to; and where I should be as welcome in my morning-gown as in full dress of ruffles and satins."
"And even more so, if possible," answered Mrs. Stanhope; "simple people like us are always a good deal put out and embarrassed by grandeur and display. It has something awful and unapproachable in our eyes."
"It has something servile and contemptible in mine," said Louise; "I always shrink from a woman flaunted out in rustling silks, great, glaring rings on her fingers, and alarming jewels swinging like ponderous pendulums from her ears. I think what a poor, little, pinched, narrow-contracted, poverty-stricken soul is there, that seeks to atone for the lack within, by rigging her poor body out like a veritable queen of harlots."
Mrs. Stanhope and Miss Martha burst into a cordial fit of laughter, as Louise, with a good deal of spirit and sarcasm, delivered herself of the preceding speech; and, before their merriment had subsided, a knock was heard at the inner door, and Col. Malcome stepped in, bowing gracefully, with a pleasant "Good-morning" to the three ladies. Mrs. Stanhope rose and offered him a chair. Depositing a large package he held in his arms on a corner of the sofa, he sat down.
Mrs. Edson blushed. She thought it was at being caught from home in dishabille by a gentleman of the colonel's etiquette and high breeding. After a few casual remarks upon the beauty of the morning, he turned his discourse to her, and remarked:
"I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Edson; we are getting to be quite strangers of late. Edith is lamenting that you do not honor us with more frequent visits."
"I have often wished to call on your family, Col. Malcome," returned Louise, in a calm, clear voice; "but since your daughter commenced attending school, have desisted, lest I might inconvenience her."
"Edith does not go to the seminary after two o'clock," said he; "her evenings are quite unemployed, and she would be highly gratified to receive a call from you."
"I shall be pleased to call on her, and also to receive more frequent visits from her. She has less to confine her at home than I; so her visits should outnumber mine."
"Ay, yes; you speak sensibly, Mrs. Edson," returned he; "you have more calls on your time than Edith. Strange I can never remember you are a married woman."
"It would be well for you to remember it," said Louise, with a dignified curve of her graceful neck, and slight addition of color, which very much heightened her beauty.
"Mrs. Edson is so youthful in appearance," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, "I think she might excuse one for forgetting she is a matron."
"I'll excuse you, Mrs. Stanhope," said Louise, rising; "I don't want to be anything to you, but your little girl, and to run in here just when I have a mind to, and to have you chide me when I do wrong, and love me always, whether right or wrong. So good-morning," and, curtseying gracefully, she glided from the room and retraced her steps to her own mansion.
There was a silence of several minutes after she left, during which Col. Malcome recollected his package, and, placing it on the table, politely inquired if the ladies could oblige him by sewing a quantity of linen, of which he should be in need in course of a few weeks, as he meditated going a journey. They would be very willing to do it for him, could they get it in readiness by the time he would want it; but they had a great deal of unfinished work on their hands. Miss Pinkerton was confident they could accomplish the colonel's, however.
"I am doubtful, Martha," said Mrs. Stanhope; "you know the large bundle Mrs. Howard's waiting-woman brought in, last night."
"O, that can easily be put by," returned Martha.
"But Hannah said the major wanted it in a month at longest."
"Pshaw! that's a phrase of her own making. It sounds just like Hannah Doliver's impertinent manner of expressing herself."
Col. Malcome gave a sudden start as Miss Pinkerton carelessly uttered these words.
"What did you say was the name of Mrs. Howard's woman?" he demanded, with an eagerness that astonished his hearers.
"Hannah Doliver," repeated Miss Martha; "do you know her?"
"No," said he, suddenly assuming an appearance of composure; "that is, I think not; but I have frequently heard the name of Doliver before. How long has she lived with Major Howard?"
"A great many years, I believe," answered Martha. "People hereabouts wonder at their keeping the ill-tempered, arbitrary hussy. They say she rules the whole house save Miss Florence."
"Ay; the young lady must have a spirit, then, I should judge, if she defies such a virago as you describe this woman to be."
"No more spirit than she should have," returned Miss Pinkerton. "A sweet, beautiful girl is Florence Howard as ever the sun shone upon."
"Ay, yes, indeed," interposed Mrs. Stanhope; "she used to call on us last summer, when her embroidery teacher was away, to get Martha to assist her in her tambour work; and I declare, I thought her the most lovable creature I ever saw."
"I am told these Howards do not mingle much in society," remarked the colonel carelessly.
"No," returned Mrs. S., "Mrs. Howard never goes out. She is a confirmed invalid, and her disease inclines her to quiet and solitude. I don't believe there's a woman in the village who has seen her in all the seasons the family have passed at Summer Home."
"O, yes!" said Miss Martha. "Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, saw her once. When she was there a year ago this spring, putting the house to rights, she cleaned the paint and windows of Mrs. Howard's room, and thus got a sight at the invalid. She told me she was a pale, thin woman, with a distressed expression of countenance. Her hair was nearly white, and she looked much older than her husband."
Col. Malcome stood before a window with his back toward the ladies, listening intently to their words.
"I have understood that Miss Florence is attending school at the seminary this term," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, at length; "do you know if it is so, Col. Malcome?"
"I think I heard Edith and Rufus say something to that effect," answered he.
"I hope she will drop in and see us some day," said Miss Pinkerton. "She and Mrs. Edson are great favorites of mine, and I doubt not your pretty daughter would become one also, if I should get acquainted with her. We are but humble people, but should be very happy to receive a call from Miss Edith."
"Thank you," said the colonel; "'tis very possible she may some time visit you, though she is rather timid and inclined to shrink from strangers. Well, ladies, shall I leave my work?" he added, laying his white hand on the package as he stepped toward the door.
"Yes," answered Miss Martha; "I will engage to have it ready in season for you."
He bowed and withdrew. Miss Pinkerton peeped through the curtain, as he walked down the garden path, and thought she had never beheld so handsome and elegant a specimen of the genus homo.
CHAPTER XV.
"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleepWhich never has wakened to watch or to weep.She bounds on the soft grass,—half woman, half child,As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.She has never known pain—she has never known tears;And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."
"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleepWhich never has wakened to watch or to weep.She bounds on the soft grass,—half woman, half child,As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.She has never known pain—she has never known tears;And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."
"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!
When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;
When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,
Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,
And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep
Which never has wakened to watch or to weep.
She bounds on the soft grass,—half woman, half child,
As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.
The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.
She has never known pain—she has never known tears;
And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;
The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."
L. E. L.
"Father!" said Florence Howard, the second day of her first vacation, "had I not better study Latin next term?"
"Latin!" answered he in a tone of surprise, "why should you study that?"
"O, for discipline to my mind," returned Florence.
"I think you will find the acquirement of French and Italian sufficient discipline," said he.
"O, but they are so easily learned! I want something more difficult—something I have to study hard on."
"Why, you would be running to me to get your lessons for you half the time!" said her father, laughing.
"No, I wouldn't," answered she, shaking her curly head cunningly. "Edgar would assist me."
"Edgar! and who is he?" inquired Major Howard.
"Why, Edgar Lindenwood! You know him," returned she.
"No, certainly I don't know anything about him," said her father.
"Why, you have seen the tall boy with the morocco cap and light curls, that used to walk to school with me last term!" said Florence, looking earnestly in his face.
"O, yes! I have seen him frequently," returned Major H. "What do you say is his name?"
"Edgar Lindenwood."
"And where does he live?"
"With his uncle."
"And who is his uncle?"
"The Hermit of the Cedars."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Major Howard. "And so, this young hermit is going to teach you Latin, Miss Florence? Romantic, upon my word!"
"Edgar is not a hermit!" said Florence, pouting her red lips and assuming an air of dignity which vastly amused her father. "He is brave, and bright, and handsome, and, our preceptor says, already a finer scholar than many a graduate from the university."
"Well, well; I cannot argue the merits of this favorite of yours, Florence," said her father; "but I promise to give him a larger share of my attention henceforth."
"I wish you would, father," said Florence. "I may bring him home with me from school some day,—may I not?"
"No!" returned Major Howard. "I can notice him in the street."
"But you cannot judge of him so far off," pursued Florence. "He looks better the nearer you approach him."
"I shall judge him best at a distance," remarked her father, moving away.
Florence did not exactly like the tone of voice in which he uttered these last words; but she soon forgot all else in the contemplation of studying Latin, and having Edgar's assistance in learning her lessons. She had never in her life taken any note of time,—never felt it lag heavily on her hands; but it appeared to her now that these interminable days of vacation would never come to an end. She passed one of them with Edith and Rufus Malcome, and this was by far the most insupportable of any. "She loved Edith dearly," she said; "but could not endure the childish prattle and frivolity of Rufus."
He was six months older than Florence, and Edith had seen seventeen summers, while Florence was only in her fifteenth; but she was so well matured in manners and appearance as to seem the senior of the delicate, retiring Edith.
Col. Malcome paid her many courteous attentions during her visit, and expressed an ardent hope that a friendship and intimacy might spring up between her and his daughter.
Florence said she should be delighted to form a companionship with Edith.
"We are located so near the seminary," said Col. Malcome, as she was preparing to return home, and Rufus stood waiting to accompany her; "while your father's mansion is so distant, that it will be very convenient for you, on rough days, to come and pass the night with Edith. Indeed, I should be highly gratified if you would make my house a sort of second home, and come in, familiarly, every day, if you choose."
Florence thanked him for his kindness, kissed Edith, and descended to the street in company with Rufus.
Col. Malcome approached the window and regarded the couple earnestly till they passed beyond his view, while strange, dark, commingled expressions passed over his face. Edith crept up to him and said softly, "What troubles you, father?"
He looked down sternly on her sweet, upturned face, and said in a tone of strong command:
"Edith, I desire you to cultivate the acquaintance of Florence Howard by every means in your power."
"I shall be glad to do so, father," answered she, with a look and tone which deprecated his sternness.
"'Tis well, then," said he, relaxing his brow and imprinting a kiss on her soft cheek as he turned away and stepped forth upon the piazza. The full moon was just rising in the east; the river rippled sweetly in the distance, and the whippoorwills piped their sharp, shrill notes on the hushed evening air. Suddenly he heard the garden-gate unclose, and, turning, beheld Mrs. Edson and her husband approaching. Descending the marble steps, he met them in the avenue, and, after a cordial interchange of salutations, ushered them into the gas-lighted drawing-room, where Edith, in a gossamer-like muslin, reclined on a velvet ottoman.
The evening passed pleasantly to all but Mr. Edson, who sat like a pantomime in a play, staring and grinning at what he could not understand or digest. Col. Malcome seemed, however, to take a malicious pleasure in placing his guest in the most awkward positions, and showing off his own superior grace and polish to the best advantage. If anything, he rather overdone. But perhaps he thought with Mrs. Salsify Mumbles in this case, "Better overshoot than fall short." Louise was graceful and self-possessed as usual; and it must be confessed did not appear very much disconcerted when Col. M. showed her husband in some ridiculous light, or mercilessly uncurtained his crude, narrow-minded opinions and ideas.
Scorn and contempt for the man she had married were fast mastering all kinder feelings she once had toward him.
CHAPTER XVI.
"I bid you leave the girl, and think no moreAbout her from henceforth.""Ah, I can leaveHer, sire;—but to forget will be, I fear,A thing beyond my power."
"I bid you leave the girl, and think no moreAbout her from henceforth."
"I bid you leave the girl, and think no more
About her from henceforth."
"Ah, I can leaveHer, sire;—but to forget will be, I fear,A thing beyond my power."
"Ah, I can leave
Her, sire;—but to forget will be, I fear,
A thing beyond my power."
It was midsummer, and the Hermit of the Cedars sat under his low piazza, curiously constructed of the enwreathed boughs and branches of evergreen trees. He held a volume in his attenuated hand, with the contents of which, he seemed intently occupied. His appearance was melancholy in the extreme. A pale, thin face;—deep sunken eyes, and a broad, high brow, by sorrow seamed with furrows long and wide; for she doth ever dig with deeper, harsher hand than time. A loose linen garment was wrapped around his tall, gaunt form, and a white handkerchief tied over his head to prevent the passing breezes from blowing his thin, straggling gray hair about his features.
So intent was he on the contents of his book that he did not notice the approach of the cheerer of his solitude. Edgar came along the narrow path with a step quicker and more impatient than was his wont, and there was an expression on his fine, manly face which had something of mortification and anger, but more of regret and sorrow. He threw his satchel on the ground, and sat down at the hermit's feet, who laid aside his volume, on beholding him in that position, and asked him if he was fatigued or ill.
"No," said the youth, "but I shall be glad when I am gone away from here to the university."
"Ah!" returned the hermit, "it is as I knew it would be when I placed you at the seminary. Your desire for fame and honor has returned, and you long to go forth in the great world and mingle in its st[illegible]."
"No," said Edgar, "I would rather live and die within the walls of this hermitage, than ever go beyond them again; but I'm resolved I will not do the foolish thing. I'll go forth, and if my life is spared, show those who call me a foundling, and a wild cub of the woods, that I am something more than they suppose me to be."
"Who has dared apply such epithets to you, my boy?" exclaimed the hermit, his pale cheeks glowing with anger.
"Do you know Major Howard of 'Summer Home?'" asked Edgar.
"That do I," answered the hermit; "and did he call you by these names?"
"Yes," returned Edgar.
"Hetalk of foundlings!" said the hermit. "Why did you not slap him in the face, Edgar?"
"The words did not come directly from him to me," said the youth, wondering at his uncle's anger, which far exceeded his own.
"Ay, through a third person you obtained them? and that was"——
"His daughter, Florence Howard."
"Florence Howard!" repeated his uncle, "and what do you know of her?"
"I have been to school with her four or five months, and have assisted her in her Latin studies this summer," returned Edgar.
"And shall never behold her face again!" said the hermit, in a tone of angry vehemence, bringing his heavy sandalled foot down upon the wooden sill with a violence that made Edgar start from his lounging posture on the turf, and gaze with amazement upon the fierce workings of a face he had never seen flushed by an angry emotion before. He feared his uncle had suddenly gone mad, and stood indeterminate what course to pursue, when the countenance before him changed, the eyes closed, and the hermit fell heavily on the green sward in front of his door. Edgar, in his alarm, lifted the prostrate form in his strong, young arms, and bore him to the low, rough couch, which was their nightly resting-place. Then, taking a bottle from a [illegible] shelf above the huge, black fire-place, he poured its contents in a cup, and bathed the temples of the deathly-looking face till the eyes opened with recognition, and the lips moved, though inaudibly.
He watched by the bed-side several hours, and at length the hermit rose suddenly to his feet, and bade Edgar retire. He obeyed, and closed his eyes, but not to sleep. Opening them after a while, he beheld his uncle sitting before the table engaged in writing. Again the lids closed, and he fell into a light drowse, during which Florence Howard flitted before him in countless variety of forms. When again he looked around he was alone. The long summer twilight had deepened into evening, and Edgar rose and lighted a lamp. On the table he discovered a small, folded billet, addressed to him. He sank on his knees, opened it, and read. Various were the expressions that flitted over his features as he did so. When he had finished he refolded it carefully, and, drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a small box which sat on the table, placed the letter within, then relocked it and returned the keys to his pocket.
Then he extinguished the lamp and sat down in the window-nook to his watch of the stars.
But his thoughts were different from what they once were when he gazed on their glistening faces.
His soul-pinions had kissed the earth, and become fouled by contact with a grosser element; and heavy with a weltering weight of woe, that they could not soar aloft and hover over the casements of angelic homes, to rest at last on the glory-bright hills of heaven.
CHAPTER XVII.
"I only know their dream was vain,And that they woke to find it past,And when by chance they met again,It was not as they parted last.His was not faith that lightly dies;For truth and love as clearly shoneIn the blue heaven of his soft eyesAs the dark midnight of her own.And therefore heaven alone can tellWhat are his living visions now,But hers—the eye can read too wellThe language written on her brow."
"I only know their dream was vain,And that they woke to find it past,And when by chance they met again,It was not as they parted last.His was not faith that lightly dies;For truth and love as clearly shoneIn the blue heaven of his soft eyesAs the dark midnight of her own.And therefore heaven alone can tellWhat are his living visions now,But hers—the eye can read too wellThe language written on her brow."
"I only know their dream was vain,
And that they woke to find it past,
And when by chance they met again,
It was not as they parted last.
His was not faith that lightly dies;
For truth and love as clearly shone
In the blue heaven of his soft eyes
As the dark midnight of her own.
And therefore heaven alone can tell
What are his living visions now,
But hers—the eye can read too well
The language written on her brow."
Phebe Carey.
The yearly examination and exhibition of Cedar Hill Seminary was approaching, and teachers and pupils were busied with preparations in order to pass the ordeal creditably to themselves and to the institution.
Prominent among the list of performers stood the name of Edgar Lindenwood, often in juxtaposition with that of Florence Howard. Since the scene in the hermit's hut, Edgar, as commanded by his uncle, had studiously avoided Florence, and she, for a still longer period, had evinced a certain distance and reserve toward him. Edgar's knowledge of her father's dislike might be sufficient cause to part him from her, but it could by no means justify his growing intercourse with Edith Malcome.
As the time approached for the exhibition, Florence asked her father's permission to absent herself entirely and remain at home. Maj. Howard thought she had better attend, as she had been to school several terms; but she said she felt too languid to take part in the exercises, and thus obtained the excuse of her indulgent father.
Edgar's quick, impassioned nature regarded her absence as a direct insult to himself, for in all the parts assigned her, she would be brought on the stage in company with him, and frequently obliged to hold single converse. If this opinion needed further confirmation it was added, when she appeared at the Scholars' Levee, held on the evening of the exhibition, in elegant dress and dashing spirits, with Rufus Malcome for a partner.
They passed each other in the dance without a token of recognition. Edgar attached himself to Edith for the larger part of the evening. After the first two or three cotillons he did not care to join them; and Edith, being too delicate to bear the excitement, they roamed through the hall, conversing together of the events of the exhibition, or mingling among groups of the village people who had assembled by invitation to partake in the festive scene.
"Ha, my little fairy!" whispered Mrs. Edson in the ear of Edith, as she was sauntering past on the arm of Lindenwood, unmindful of her friend's proximity; "are you so far skyward you can't see poor Louise? Introduce me to your princely gallant, an' it please you."
Edith turned and presented Edgar to Mrs. Edson, who instantly found them a place in the group around her.
"This scene brings vividly before me my happy school days," she remarked, tears welling up to her beautiful eyes, which she dashed hurriedly away, exclaiming, "but I must not begin to prose about myself when I was young, lest I drive you all away by my tedious recitals."
"Mr. Lindenwood," said she, turning to Edgar, "though we have never met before, your vivid personations on the stage to-day have caused you to seem more like an old friend than a comparative stranger."
Edgar expressed his pleasure that his poor performances had met her approbation, and also that she condescended to recognize him as a friend.
"What a graceful creature is Florence Howard!" continued Mrs. Edson, as the fair girl whirled past her in the dance. "Edith, your brother should consider himself most fortunate in securing the most brilliant lady in the room for a partner; no disparagement to your charms, my dear," she added, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on the soft cheek of the blushing girl. "You know what I think of you, darling. The spirit of beauty is everywhere, says the poet. She assumes the largest variety of types and forms, and, verily, she has given her most dangerous one to Florence Howard. She is the brilliant dahlia, the pride of the gay parterre; but my Edith is the modest daisy blooming in some sheltered nook. The stormy winds shall rend the one from its lofty stalk and scatter its wealth of purple leaves o'er the miry earth, while dews and sunbeams kiss the modest plant that blooms in the lowly vale. Is it not so, Mr. Lindenwood?" she asked, as, pausing, she encountered his gaze fixed earnestly on her face.
"I don't know," he said; "that is, I have not considered the subject. Edith, I think the party are retiring," he added, turning his eyes to several disjointed groups; "remain with Mrs. Edson a few moments and I will return to you."
As he entered the ladies' dressing room, he saw Florence standing alone by the window, in the very spot where they had often stood in the interim of recitations, and studied their lessons from the same book. He thought he would give the world to know she was thinking of those times now. Approaching softly he stood near her in silence a few moments.
"O, Florence!" said he, at length, in a low, deep tone, tremulous with intense feeling and tenderness. Was there not enough of passionate devotion breathed in that one word to convince her of his eternal, unchanging affection?
What poor, weak simpletons are we, to pine and languish for words, where looks and tones are infinitely more expressive! Some people affirm that "actions speak louder than words." But we can't say much in favor of those, because, as far as we know, people in love invariably act like fools.
Florence turned at Edgar's adjuration, and he saw, by the moonlight, two great tear-drops dimming her starry eyes. He was about to extend his hand when Rufus Malcome rushed into the room, calling her name. Changing his purpose, he said, in a light conventional tone, "Have you been happy to night?"
"O, very!" answered she, with a gay laugh, which echoed in his ear long after she had taken the arm of Rufus and tripped lightly away.
When Edgar returned to Edith, he found Col. Malcome in lively conversation with Mrs. Edson. Florence and Rufus had disappeared, and Edith signifying her wish to retire, he led her from the hall and escorted her home. He found Florence in Col. Malcome's parlor sitting on a sofa with Rufus at her side.
"Come in, Lindenwood," said he; "here's room for us all."
"Thank you," returned Edgar. "I have a long walk before me, and must not tarry."
"O, stay with us to night," said Rufus.
"We should be pleased to have you remain, if agreeable," remarked Edith, timidly.
"It would be very agreeable," said Edgar, politely, "but my absence would alarm my uncle."
"O, he wants to be off to his hermitage!" laughed Rufus, coarsely; "let him go. You will stay, won't you, Florence?"
"If Edith invites me," returned she.
"Well, I do," said Edith quickly.
"Then the point is settled," remarked Florence.
"Good-night to you all," said Edgar, moving hastily toward the door.
Scarce ten minutes had elapsed, after his departure, when Florence rose and said, "Now I am going."
"Why, you just promised to remain all night," said Rufus, in a tone of undisguised disappointment.
"No," said she; "I made no promise, and I am going."
"Then I'll go with you," returned Rufus, seizing his hat.
"No," said Col. Malcome, suddenly entering the apartment. "With Miss Howard's consent, I'll be her escort home to-night."
Florence said she should be honored by his company. So bidding good-night to Edith and Rufus, she took his proffered arm and descended to the street.
"How have you enjoyed the ball to-night?" inquired he, as they walked on together.
"Very well," answered she, briefly.
"This young Lindenwood, that burrows with the strange chap they call the 'Hermit of the Cedars;' you are acquainted with him, I believe."
"He has attended school at the seminary, since I commenced to go," answered Florence, as calmly as she was able.
"He has been paying Edith some attentions of late," continued the colonel, in a careless tone; "do you suppose he really cares for her?"
"I don't know," answered Florence; and her voice trembled in spite of her efforts to steady it.
"Of course you don't know," the colonel went on, still in that cold, indifferent tone; "I merely asked what you thought?"
"I never thought anything about it in my life," said Florence, in a choking voice.
"That's rather strange," returned he. "I have thought of it several times lately;—but here we are at your father's gate. Present my regards, and say I would be happy to receive a call from him whenever he is so disposed."
Florence bowed good-evening to her gallant, and hurried to her own apartment.
The night was warm. A waning moon lighted the eastern terrace, and, not feeling disposed to sleep, she stepped through a window that opened to the floor, and, leaning against a pillar, stood silently gazing over the gardens and grounds below.
She had not been standing long thus when she beheld the figure of a man moving slowly along the gravelled walks, pausing frequently and fixing an earnest gaze on the windows of the apartment occupied by her mother. She grew alarmed, and was about descending the stairs to arouse her father, when she heard the hall door open softly, and saw the figure of a woman stealing down the garden path. She recognized the dark form instantly as that of Hannah Doliver. The man met her and the two went into a green-house. After an hour the woman reappeared, and retraced her steps to the mansion, but the man she saw no more. Securing her windows, Florence retired, resolving to impart to her father a history of what she had seen.
When, she did so, he only laughed at her and said he supposed it was some enamored knight come to pay his devoirs to the fair lady of his love, and counselled her to say no more of the matter, as it would needlessly irritate Hannah to know her secret was discovered.
CHAPTER XVIII.