"The world hath used me well, and now at lengthIn peace and quietness I sit me downTo feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.Ambition doth no more distract my breast,—I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."
"The world hath used me well, and now at lengthIn peace and quietness I sit me downTo feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.Ambition doth no more distract my breast,—I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."
"The world hath used me well, and now at length
In peace and quietness I sit me down
To feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.
Ambition doth no more distract my breast,—
I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;
Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."
It is quite time for us to call on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles again. We fear the good lady, who is rather sensitive on such points, has felt neglected ere this; but we hope not, and, as her mansion heaves in view, we are convinced that matters of more importance than visits from our humble selves, have engaged our old friend's attention.
The second story has actually gone up, and the piazza spreads its white palings along the sides of Mr. Salsify's dwelling. The pasteboard sign of "Mr. Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," is no longer seen swinging from the bed-room window, but a new sign stretches its sublime length over the doors of Mr. Salsify's old grocery, announcing, in staring black and yellow, to the inhabitants of Wimbledon, that "Mumbles, Shaw & Co., wholesale dealers in pork, cheese, onions, dried apples, sausages, and verdigris, continue at the old stand, No. 9 Temple street, where they will entertain the trading public in a genteel and finished manner."
Thus it appears Mr. Salsify's high hopes are at length realized. Most fortunate man! He has "risen in his profession" to the topmost summit of his earthly ambition.
Happy will it be for him if he remains content with his present elevation, and goes not, like too many restless mortals, clambering to a higher point, only to fall back, on some adverse day, into the slough of ill-luck and despondency.
Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed; nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped, though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom, and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.
'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.
While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she "wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a little light work for her, to-morrow; for she has got to go to Goslin Flats to attend a great mass convention, and can't stop to do it herself. She will pay Aunt Dilly well, if she will oblige her. Garrison has been sick—Peggy Nonce is away on a visit to her son, who has recently been married, and mamma's public duties and household affairs have proved too heavy for her shoulders," etc., etc.
Susy ran through a long rigmarole, with a volubility worthy the daughter of a fluent public speaker.
We hasten away lest our mania for discovering resemblances should detect one between Mrs. Salsify Mumbles and pert Susy Pimble.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Ay, little do those features wearThe shade of sin,—the soil of care;The hair is parted o'er a browOpen and white as mountain-snow,And clusters there in many a ring,With sun and summer glistening.Yet something on that brow has wroughtA moment's cast of angry thought."
"Ay, little do those features wearThe shade of sin,—the soil of care;The hair is parted o'er a browOpen and white as mountain-snow,And clusters there in many a ring,With sun and summer glistening.Yet something on that brow has wroughtA moment's cast of angry thought."
"Ay, little do those features wear
The shade of sin,—the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain-snow,
And clusters there in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of angry thought."
In an arbor of Major Howard's elegant garden, the moonlight shimmering its rich, clustering vines with silver, and the night-breezes murmuring in low, musical voices among the dark green leaves, sat a man of commanding aspect and handsome features. Light auburn hair, closely trimmed, lay in short, thick masses of wavy curls around his high, pale brow. His mien and manner indicated the well-bred gentleman. A small, dark figure crouched beside him. It was Hannah Doliver.
"We meet again at last," said the man, after a considerable silence. His voice was low and deep, and the woman trembled as she answered,
"I marvel how you have discovered me."
"Few things escape my knowledge which it subserves my interest to know," returned he. "What in the name of all the fiends possessed you to enter the service of Tom Howard?"
"A lone, forsaken female finds shelter where she can," whined the woman.
"O, don't babble in that hypocritical tone!" said the man. "I did not leave you so destitute; and I took the child off your hands that no incumbrance might fetter your footsteps."
"Fiend!" exclaimed Hannah. "You shall not talk to me thus. What have you done with my boy?"
"I have done well by him," answered the man. "He has been reared as a gentleman. No stain has ever been suspected on his birth."
"Where is he?" asked she, in a voice trembling with emotion.
"He is near you. I left him but an hour ago, well and happy."
"Near me!" said the woman almost wildly. "It cannot be—you lie to me, Herbert!"
"By the heavens above, I utter the solemn truth!" returned the man.
"What name does he bear?"
The man bowed his tall form and whispered in her ear. She sprang to her feet, paced hurriedly to and fro down the little alcove, and at length threw herself on her knees and exclaimed,
"O, let me see him! Can you be so cruel as to withhold the child from his mother's right?"
"It rests with you to decide whether you see him or no," said the man, wholly unmoved by her distress and emotion. Swear to keep my presence here a secret, and do my bidding in all things, and you may see your boy when you choose."
"I swear!" answered the woman, frantically.
"Tell me first why you are here serving Tom Howard's wife?"
"I am not serving his wife."
"Who then?"
"His sister."
"His sister!" exclaimed the man, now evincing strong emotion. "And does she live?"
"She lives; and lives to palm herself off on the world as the wife of her own brother."
"What iniquity!" said the man. The woman burst into a low laugh.
"Why do you laugh?" demanded he, fiercely.
"Because iniquity comes so prettily from your lips," replied she in a sarcastic tone.
"Take care, woman!" said he. "Remember you are in my power."
The little dark figure trembled and was silent.
"I wonder she would receive you again into her service," remarked the man at length in an absorbed tone.
"Fear is a strong motive. I threatened to reveal her deception to the public."
"Ay, you have some skill and tact, I find!" said he, rising. "Now remember, when I wish to see your mistress, you are to gain me an entrance to her."
"What do you want to see her for?" asked the woman. "I believe a sight of you would throw her into fits."
"It is none of your business why I wish to see her," said he. "But mind, you do not look on your boy unless you implicitly obey all my commands." Here he stooped and whispered again in her ear.
"I hate the girl!" she said, after he had ceased speaking and stood gazing down on her, twirling his velvet cap carelessly in his hand.
"But you would like to see your boy so well married," remarked he.
"'Twould be a sweet revenge," she said in a chuckling tone. He turned to depart.
"Herbert!" she called, softly.
"What do you wish?" said he, pausing.
The woman hesitated, and at length said, "The girl—her child I mean; is she——?"
Again the man whispered in her ear. "None can say," he added aloud, "that I have not been a kind parent to my children."
"I'm glad there's some virtue in you," said the woman, turning toward the quiet mansion that stood in almost palace-like magnificence in the midst of the beautiful grounds that surrounded it on all sides. The man lingered behind, and finally left the garden by a path lying in an opposite direction from the one by which he had entered. He bent his steps rapidly in the direction of the river. Either the warmth of the night or his own emotions oppressed him; for, as he gained its banks, he slackened his pace, drew off his cap, and loosened his collar. With arms folded across his chest, he moved slowly along, like one intensely absorbed in some dark and intricate train of thought. Sometimes he muttered to himself, and made strange gestures, or tossed his head with a confident air, as though he saw onward to the success of some plan he concerted. So occupied was he in his own thoughts, that he never saw the tall, gaunt figure of a man, crouching in the shadow of a small linden tree, that stood on the bank of the river, nearly opposite Dilly Danforth's wretched abode, although he passed in so close contact as to brush against the little bundle of sticks the unknown held in his hand, while his deep, sunken eyes glared on the passer till they seemed nearly starting from their sockets.
"'Tis he!" murmured the gazer, when the abstracted one was beyond the sound of his voice. "I must see where he goes;" and, stealing noiselessly to the door of Dilly's abode, he placed the bundle of sticks on her sill, and slowly followed the receding figure.
CHAPTER XX.
"And the clear depths of her dark eyeWere bright with troubled brilliancy,Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,Which might oppress, but not appear.Her curls, with all their sunny glow,Were braided o'er an aching brow;But well she knew how many soughtTo gaze upon her secret thought;—And love is proud—she might not brookThat others on her heart should look."
"And the clear depths of her dark eyeWere bright with troubled brilliancy,Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,Which might oppress, but not appear.Her curls, with all their sunny glow,Were braided o'er an aching brow;But well she knew how many soughtTo gaze upon her secret thought;—And love is proud—she might not brookThat others on her heart should look."
"And the clear depths of her dark eye
Were bright with troubled brilliancy,
Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,
Which might oppress, but not appear.
Her curls, with all their sunny glow,
Were braided o'er an aching brow;
But well she knew how many sought
To gaze upon her secret thought;—
And love is proud—she might not brook
That others on her heart should look."
One pleasant autumn evening a social group were assembled in Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful parlor. A tall, argand lamp on a marble table, shed its mild, ethereal light over the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating, young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet, shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made, too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.
Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth, her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.
Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant, if possible.
There were many points of resemblance between her and Louise Edson. Both were endowed with superior mental and intellectual powers; both accomplished and beautiful; but there was at times a gentleness in Florence's manner, a dreamy light in the far depths of her large, hazel eyes, that indicated less firmness and strength of character, with tenderer susceptibilities. Perhaps life's trials would sooner unnerve her spirit.
Mr. Edson was not present, nor was it necessary he should be, to enhance the enjoyment of his gifted wife. He was, in fact, very much the same sort of an appendage in his elegant mansion that Mrs. Pimble averred her husband to be in his,—"a mere crank to keep the machine in motion." Not that Mrs. Edson monopolized her husband's sphere, as did the masculine Mrs. Pimble. By no means. She appeared to give her lord full sway and sceptre in his own household, and the good-natured man thought never husband had so obedient, condescending partner as blessed his bosom. Consummate actress, to conquer where she seemed to yield, and use her advantages so skilfully that the vanquished felt himself the victor. Mrs. Pimble stormed and blustered, but she exercised not half the power over her household that Louise Edson swayed by a soft word or placid smile.
But we forget our party, which waxes merry as the evening progresses, warmed by the genial influences of social intercourse. Col. Malcome and Mrs. Edson discussed the merits of different authors; Lindenwood modestly joined them, and Florence dropped an occasional word. Edith sat silent. Rufus yawned, and at length commenced a game of forfeits with Dick Giblet, over which he soon grew so boisterous, that his father reproved him sternly for a violation of the rules of politeness. The youth's brow flushed with sudden anger, and for the remainder of the evening he sat apart from the company. When the party dispersed he did not come forward to claim Florence, and she fell a second time to the care of Col. Malcome. Edgar escorted Edith, and the couples went different ways to reach their destinations. Edgar took the street by the river, and Col. M. that leading past the seminary. The latter had much the longer walk; but Edith, fragile and delicate, complained of fatigue, ere they had proceeded far, and Edgar proposed she should rest awhile on the trunk of a fallen tree by the river's brink. She sat down, and he, after a few moments, assumed a seat at her side. Her veil was thrown off, and her small silk hat had fallen back from her head, revealing in full her girlish features and wavy, auburn curls. Edgar was gazing on the beautiful face, when suddenly a footstep met his ear, and, turning, he beheld his uncle, the hermit, standing before them, staring wildly upon Edith; who, as soon as she discovered the strange-looking being, uttered a faint scream and sunk on Edgar's bosom. "Don't be alarmed," said he, whispering in her ear; "this man will not harm you,"—and then lifting his head to address his uncle, and inquire what brought him there, so far from home at that late hour, he found the hermit had disappeared.
Calming Edith's alarm as well as he was able, he escorted her home, and then set off for the hut in the forest, pondering, as he went, upon the event of the evening, and wondering what could be the cause of the fierce and ireful expression which disfigured the usually placid face of his uncle, as he gazed so fixedly on Edith. It reminded him of the violent passion evinced in regard to his intercourse with Florence Howard. He knew the recluse had experienced a severe disappointment in early life, and concluded this had tended to sour his mind toward the whole female race, and caused him to look with angry distrust upon the most gentle and lovely of the sex. In no other way could he account for the repugnance manifested by his uncle toward his friendship and acquaintance with both Florence and Edith. Thus ruminating, he reached the forest habitation to find all dark and gloomy. The hermit had not returned to his hut.
Col. Malcome lingered a moment as he escorted Florence to the door of her father's mansion, and, as he did so, Major Howard stepped forth, rather suddenly. Florence presented him to the colonel, and the two gentlemen shook hands cordially.
"I have frequently desired to call on you and form your acquaintance, Col. Malcome," said the major; "but frequent absences from home, and the delicate health of my wife, have prevented me hitherto."
A slight, cynical smile flitted over the colonel's face at these latter words, but it was not observed in the obscure light of evening, and he answered, politely, that he had often desired an acquaintance with the major, and hoped that now their children had established a friendly intercourse, the parents might soon follow the example.
Major Howard expressed a wish that it might be so, and Col. Malcome, bowing gracefully, retired.
Florence, after inquiring for her mother, and learning she was comfortable as usual, ascended to her room, made fast the door, and drew forth her journal, which was the dearest companion of her lonely hours, the receptacle of her most treasured thoughts, and safety-valve for all unuttered griefs and hidden sorrows.
She had scarcely touched her gold-tipped pen to the virgin page, when a soft knock on the door displaced her train of thought.
"Father?" said she putting her lips close to the lock, for he was the only one from whom she could expect a call at that late hour. There was no answer. She hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. Hannah Doliver slid in.
Florence stood still, gazing with astonishment on the little wiry form, as it wormed around the apartment, touching the books, and giving sudden pulls at the curtains and bed drapery. She had never seen Hannah over her threshold before, and wondered what a visit from her might import.
"I came to see if you wanted anything, Miss Florence," said the woman, at length, fixing her twinkling eyes on the fair girl's face.
"No!" said Florence, in an impatient tone; "what should I want at this hour, but to be alone?"
"O, I'm not going to intrude upon you but a moment," returned Hannah. "I thought, as you had been out late and 'twas rather cold, you might want a fire lighted in your room, or a cup of warm tea, or something; so I ran up to see." Florence grew more and more astonished. "Have you enjoyed yourself this evening?" asked Hannah.
"Yes," answered Florence briefly.
"I am glad to hear it," returned the woman. "This Col. Mer—— what is his name?" she paused and asked abruptly.
"Malcome," said Florence.
"O, yes! I'm bad at remembering strange names. Well, this Col. Malcome has got some fine children, has he not?"
"Yes," returned Florence; "his daughter is a beautiful girl."
"And his son?"
"Is a loggerhead."
At these words, a furious anger, flashed over Hannah's face, and, glaring fiercely on Florence for a moment, she darted from the room and slammed the door behind her. The young girl turned the key, saying, "I'm glad to be rid of her hateful presence. What possessed her to come here is more than I can tell." And in the surprise this unusual visit occasioned, she retired and forgot her journal.
CHAPTER XXI.
"A mien that neither seeks nor shunsThe homage scattered in her way;A love that hath few favored ones,And yet for all can work and pray.A smile wherein each mortal readsThe very sympathy he needs;An eye like to a mystic book,Of lays that bard or prophet sings,Which keepeth for the holiest lookOf holiest love, its deepest things."
"A mien that neither seeks nor shunsThe homage scattered in her way;A love that hath few favored ones,And yet for all can work and pray.A smile wherein each mortal readsThe very sympathy he needs;An eye like to a mystic book,Of lays that bard or prophet sings,Which keepeth for the holiest lookOf holiest love, its deepest things."
"A mien that neither seeks nor shuns
The homage scattered in her way;
A love that hath few favored ones,
And yet for all can work and pray.
A smile wherein each mortal reads
The very sympathy he needs;
An eye like to a mystic book,
Of lays that bard or prophet sings,
Which keepeth for the holiest look
Of holiest love, its deepest things."
What an impetus was given to the cause of Woman's Rights, when the first Bloomer stepped upon the stage! With what tremendous huzzas of triumph and victory did the whole assaulting sisterhood mount the breaches thus made in the great bulwarks of man's tyranny and despotism; infuriately calling on every woman throughout the length and breadth of the nation to rise in the might of her slumbering strength, make her petticoats into pillars of defiance, and hurl them on the weak, unguarded outposts, till the whole tottering fabric should go down with a crash to rise no more.
Mrs. Pimble and her coadjutors commenced rolling the ball of reform with increased velocity. Mass meetings, of the most boisterous and denunciatory character, were held through the community. It appeared a war was commenced which threatened to cease only with the extermination of the masculine portion of Wimbledon. Mr. Salsify Mumbles, though as brave as most men in common encounters, was afraid to step outside his door lest his unmentionables should be seized by some of the new-fledged manhood, and a petticoat tied to his coat-tail. Even the green damask curtains and cushion-coverings that adorned the high, old-fashioned pulpit of the village church, were voted as ostentatious and calculated to foster luxurious idleness in the pastor; and a committee appointed and authorized to tear them from their places and sew them into bloomers for the comfort of the lady-lecturers, whose callings exposed them to the most inclement weathers. And so green-legged Philanthropy stalked through Wimbledon; but it never laid an armful of wood on the sill of Dilly Danforth's humble abode, though rough blew the storms of the inclement winter; nor did it put a cap over Master Willie's curly locks, or sew a charitable patch on the elbow of his ragged jacket. Because it was philanthropy in the wider sense, which sought to relieve in the sum of thousands—not of units.
Mrs. Dr. Simcoe figured not so largely among the sisterhood of reformers as she would have done had she not been encumbered by "Simcoe's children," who were two of the most ill-natured, uncompromising offshoots of barbarism that ever tormented a meek, unoffending woman.
Mrs. Lawson thought some reformer should arise to fill the place so nearly vacated by the persecuted lady, and fixed upon Mrs. Edson as her successor.
So, on a day, Mrs. Lawson, in green damask bloomers, black overcoat, and deer-skin gloves, appeared on the steps of Mrs. Edson's mansion, and gave a herculean pull at the door-bell which brought the master of the house instanter, with staring eyes, to answer the pealing summons. "I believe Mrs. Edson resides here," said the lady-reformist, looking loftily upon the man, who was evidently very much struck with his visitor's personal equipments.
"She does," answered he, at length.
"I have come to hold a conversation with her," said Mrs. Lawson, stamping the snow from her boots, and proceeding toward the open door of the sitting-room.
Louise rose as she entered, glanced at the strange figure, then at her husband, and then back to the figure again, with an amusing expression of wonder on her beautiful features.
"I do not know this—this person's name," said he, at length.
"Lawson—Mrs. Portentia Lawson!" said the lady-reformist, laying her walking-stick on the piano, and unbuttoning her over-coat. "I am actively engaged in the benevolent enterprises of the day, and have come to obtain your aid and coöperation, madam." Here she made a low inclination toward Louise.
"My wife does not meddle in such matters," said Mr. Edson, simply. "I pay a stated sum yearly toward the support of the gospel, and give as much as people in general to the missionary and Bible societies."
"It is nothing to me," said Mrs. Lawson, turning sharply upon the speaker, "what you give to support the gospel, or to endow Bible societies. I have nothing to do with such milk-sop organizations, or the donkeys that draggle at their heels. Other and loftier objects engage my attention and claim my powers. My business is not with you, sir! It is with the woman who condescends to acknowledge you as her husband!" Having delivered herself of the preceding harangue, Mrs. Lawson turned her attention to Louise, and vouchsafed no further notice of Mr. Edson, who soon slunk out of the room and returned to his counter.
"I suppose you are not wholly ignorant of the reform the more talented of your sex are making efforts to effect in the social condition of Wimbledon," remarked the nimble-tongued Mrs. Lawson to her fair auditor, who was sitting in a low rocking-chair before the glowing grate, with her tiny, slippered-feet poised on the fender.
"Yes!" answered she, purposely ignorant. "I am confined at home by my duties as a wife, and know very little of what is passing around me."
Mrs. Lawson proceeded to give a detailed account of the labors of a small band of enfranchised females for the liberation of their enslaved and suffering sisters, whose weakness and timidity had hitherto prevented their rising and throwing off the yoke of the oppressor, man. So eloquently did she rehearse her tale, so still and patient was her listener, that she felt confident of gaining a new coädjutor in the ranks of female reform. As she finished her recital, she directed a sharp, piercing glance toward Mrs. Edson, whose calm, clear eyes and placid face evinced no disturbing emotions.
"Will you join our ranks?" demanded Mrs. Lawson, "and aid us in rending the fetters forged on woman's wrists by the tyrant man?"
"No!" said Louise, in a quiet but determined tone.
"Then you do not believe in Woman's Rights!" said Mrs. Lawson, half her enthusiasm falling off and leaving her coarse features blank and bare.
"O, yes!" answered Louise, her face brightening as she spoke, "I believe in Woman's Rights with all my heart and soul. Yet not in crowds, and camps, and forums, where swarming multitudes are jostling to and fro; and brawls, and shouts, and loud harangues make tumult in the air, do I believe she finds her proper sphere. Not in halls of legislation, or among empannelled juries, or yet within the sacred desk, would I behold the form of woman. No, no! what sight so revolting to a refined soul—whether it dwell in male or female bosom—as unsexed womanhood, booted and spurred, parading over rostrums, brawling in debates, and spouting sophistical sentiments on subjects of whose true signification they are as ignorant as an idiot of the laughter and derision his babble excites? O, 'tis woman's thrice-beautiful right to relieve and succor the care-worn and distressed, wherever on this goodly earth they fall within the circle of her sphere and influence! To give sweet, unobtrusive charities to the children of want! By gentle words of sympathy and hope, to raise and cheer the drooping souls of her erring sisters; and in dim-lighted rooms, where restless disease tosses on couches of pain and agony, 'tis hers to move with noiseless tread, to smooth the pillow, bathe the brow, and give the healing potion! Say not her sphere is limited, her influence small, her mission low, or her rights unacknowledged."
Louise rose as she proceeded, her face glowing with the sentiments she uttered. Mrs. Lawson stood before her, moving backwards gradually, till she finally receded through the open door, took to the street, and was seen no more in the home of Louise Edson.
CHAPTER XXII.
"Babies are very well when they don't cry,But when they do, I choose not to be nigh;For of all awful sounds that can appal,The most terrific is a baby's squall;I'd rather hear a panther's hungry howl,Or e'en a tiger's deep, ferocious growl,Than sit in chimney-corner 'neath my hat,And list the screechings of an irate brat."
"Babies are very well when they don't cry,But when they do, I choose not to be nigh;For of all awful sounds that can appal,The most terrific is a baby's squall;I'd rather hear a panther's hungry howl,Or e'en a tiger's deep, ferocious growl,Than sit in chimney-corner 'neath my hat,And list the screechings of an irate brat."
"Babies are very well when they don't cry,
But when they do, I choose not to be nigh;
For of all awful sounds that can appal,
The most terrific is a baby's squall;
I'd rather hear a panther's hungry howl,
Or e'en a tiger's deep, ferocious growl,
Than sit in chimney-corner 'neath my hat,
And list the screechings of an irate brat."
We thought we would go to Mrs. Stanhope's this cold, starry, winter evening, but on passing the parlor windows of Dea. Allen's cottage, the curtains being yet undrawn, we distinguished, by the blazing firelight within, the form of that good lady, and also that of her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton, both sitting at the family table, drinking tea with the good deacon and his amiable spouse. Amy Seaton and Charlie were there, too, but we missed the laughing face of Jenny Andrews, and Mrs. Allen said she was gone on a sleighing excursion, which a number of the young people of Wimbledon were enjoying, this fine, bright evening.
"I want to know," asked Miss Pinkerton, sipping her bohea, "if you believe there's any truth in the report of Florence Howard's engagement with Rufus Malcome, Mrs. Allen?"
"Well, I never thought much about the matter," returned that mild-visaged lady. "The young people's affairs don't interest me particularly. The two families are quite intimate. We have the Malcomes at our next door, and can't well avoid seeing a large number of their visitors, as they come and go."
"Col. Malcome is a very gentlemanly man," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, as they were rising from the table.
"Yes," said the good deacon, wiping his face with a yellow silk handkerchief; "but sometimes I fear he is not the Christian he should be. He never goes to church, and every Sunday that wicked-looking woman of Major Howard's is there the whole day, racketing about with Rufus and the servants. I don't think a peaceable, pious man would counsel such doings, for my part."
"That Hannah Doliver at Col. Malcome's every Sabbath?" said Miss Pinkerton, opening wide her large, light eyes; "I don't see what she does there; really, the impudence of some people is astonishing. 'Tis likely she wants to see all she can and gossip about the colonel's affairs."
Nobody replied to this pert speech of Miss Martha's, and Mrs. Stanhope resumed the conversation by giving a brief account of Mrs. Lawson's discomfiting attempt to convert Mrs. Louise Edson into a reformer; she having received an amusing description of the scene from Louise's own lips. This was exciting considerable merriment among the group, when there came a rap on the door, and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles entered with her daughter, Mary Madeline; the latter carrying a bundle in her arms. Before the salutations were fairly over, said bundle began to squeal, and on removing several yellow flannel blankets, a baby was discovered of nearly the same hue as the shawls which had enveloped it.
And the baby became the toast on all sides; as what baby does not, when making its debut among strangers? Mrs. Allen said it was the image of its grandma, whereupon Mrs. Salsify laughed and looked supremely silly. The deacon patted its back and said, "Poor little innocent! what a world of sin and misery it has come into!"
Mrs. Stanhope said it appeared very strong of its age, and Miss Pinkerton gave it a hasty, expressive glance, which spokeheropinion more eloquently than words could have done.
Amy and Charlie approached in their turn, and, gazing on it, exclaimed, innocently,
"What afunny thing!"
Verily, there was more truth than fiction in these words. It certainlywasa funny thing. On the crown of its long, bare, peaked head, stuck one of the little, furbelowed caps we once saw Mrs. Salsify engaged in making, which was tied down over its flapping ears with orange-colored ribbon. A receding forehead, little specs of eyes, a turned-up nose, and great blubber lips, adown whose corners flowed eternally two miniature cataracts. O, what a face! Surely, nobody but a grandmother would be pleased to have it said to resemble theirs. 'Twas such a scowling, uncomfortable-looking baby, and had such a shrill, piercing squeal for a cry; for all the world like a miniature porker. Mary Madeline tossed it up and down in her arms, trotted it on her knee, but still it squealed, and Mrs. Salsify said it was squealing for its father; it always did so when it was carried away from him, and they should have to take it home. So they bundled off, and then Miss Martha spoke. "It was strange people would carry their squalling brats into their neighbors' houses to annoy them."
"Children are usually more trouble among strangers than at home," Mrs. Allen remarked.
Then Charlie Seaton said, "Willie Danforth told him it was always squealing when he passed Mr. Salsify's, which was several times a day, on his way to and from the seminary; and he thought they kept a pig in their parlor, till one day he saw the baby's face at the window, and discovered the sounds proceeded from its noisy throat."
"How happens it that Willie Danforth goes to school at the seminary, when his mother is so poor?" asked Miss Pinkerton.
"Willie says his mother found a paper on her door-sill one morning," answered Charlie, "and on opening it several bank-notes fell out. On the paper was written, 'Use these for William's tuition at the seminary.' So he is going to school till the money is spent."
"Well, I declare," said Miss Martha, "that was a strange incident. Does Mrs. Danforth know who left the money?"
"She thinks it was the same one who leaves little bundles of sticks at her door, every now and then," answered Charlie.
"Well, who is that?" inquired Miss P.
"O, she don't know," returned the lad.
"I am glad some kind soul remembers the poor widow," said Mrs. Allen; "for I have often feared many of us were too neglectful of the lone woman."
"You know, wife," said the deacon, "what sad reports we heard of her hypocrisy; how she assumed an appearance of extreme poverty to create sympathy and wheedle people into deeds of false benevolence. I do not think such sinfulness should be countenanced."
"I know such reports were spread abroad concerning her," remarked Mrs. Stanhope; "but I never could trace them to any other source than that ranting, blustering Mrs. Pimble."
"What! that brawling, fanatical, crazy-pated, man-woman?" exclaimed the deacon, vehemently; "pray, don't mention her. The wrath of God will fall upon her and all the guilty brood who have desecrated His sanctuary, by tearing down its curtains and converting them into garments to serve Satan in." The excitable deacon was waxing warm, when his wife gave him a conjugal nudge, and he held his peace.
CHAPTER XXIII.
"From the hour by him enchanted,From the moment when we met;Henceforth by one image haunted,Life may never more forget.All my nature changed—his beingSeemed the only source of mine.Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeingThy sad future to divine?"
"From the hour by him enchanted,From the moment when we met;Henceforth by one image haunted,Life may never more forget.All my nature changed—his beingSeemed the only source of mine.Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeingThy sad future to divine?"
"From the hour by him enchanted,
From the moment when we met;
Henceforth by one image haunted,
Life may never more forget.
All my nature changed—his being
Seemed the only source of mine.
Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing
Thy sad future to divine?"
Florence Howard sat in a deep-cushioned fauteuil, beside a marble table which graced the centre of the elegant apartment she called her own. A loose robe, of India cashmere, in superb colors, with a lining of the softest, rose-colored velvet, was folded carelessly about her graceful form. One white hand toyed with the luxuriant chestnut curls, that hung in beautiful profusion over her shoulders; the other rested lightly on the cushioned arm of the chair. A quantity of rich writing materials were spread out on the table before her; but she glanced towards them listlessly, and at length bowed her queenly head between her hands, and sat a long time still and silent, as if absorbed in reverie. Ever and anon her little foot tapped impatiently the soft carpet beneath it, as though some harassing, unpleasant vision disturbed her brain. The clear, ringing chimes of the college clock finally aroused her to consciousness.
Rising, she drew aside the heavy folds of the damask curtain, and gazed for a moment forth on the sleeping earth. The stars were bright, and a slender crescent rim hung just above the dark cedar forest that swept and swayed to the northward. Florence dropped the curtain, and, returning to the table, opened a large morocco-bound volume, which revealed a virgin page. Twirling the silver top from a carved, mosaic inkstand, she dipped the golden tips of a pearl-handled pen in its ebon contents, and holding it between her small, taper fingers, rested her arm a few moments on the stand, as if waiting for her thoughts to form and arrange themselves ere she gave them expression. Suddenly the pen dashed off, and line after line of graceful characters grew on the pure, white page till it was completely filled.
"I have looked out on the midnight," she wrote, "with all its countless diamonds blazing on its brow; and far on the verge of the northern horizon hung the pale disc of the young crescent moon hurrying to obscure itself behind the dark, gloomy forest,—like as my hopes fail when I turn my eyes toward those cedar-tops. O, earth, how soon thy children learn the lesson of sorrow and distrust! But where is my old pen taking me this evening? This journal grows a sad, ghostly thing, o'ersplashed with tears, and wo-fraught to the edges.
"To turn the subject: What have I done to-day? Moped dismally till evening, and then muffled myself in furs; sat down among cushions and buffalo robes in the omnibus-sleigh, beside ——, shall I write it? yes! beside Rufus Malcome, and dashed away over the snow-clad earth to the music of merry bells and merrier voices around me.
"How finely Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet enjoyed themselves! I understood their happiness well. Mrs. Edson was not quite so buoyant with spirits as usual; but she conversed with Rufus in her charming style. I was quite indignant to hear so much eloquence and refinement wasted on a churl like him, and just malicious enough to think the fair speaker would have preferred to say her pretty things in the ear of one who could have better appreciated their worth and beauty, namely, Col. Malcome. He is really a splendid man, though I hardly relish the power he seems to exercise over father, who is so infatuated with him I believe he would scarcely be able to refuse any request he might choose to make. I wonder so talented a father should own a dolt like Rufus for a son. Silly-pated fellow! he has made love to me several times. I saymadeit, and truthfully; for no such simpleton as he could ever actuallyfeelit in their bosoms. But then, no doubt, he thinks he is in love,—desperately so. I have no pity for him; nothing but contempt, and yet, should he propose for me to my father, I fear the result would be his acceptance. He has wealth and position, and I know father has a suspicion that I have yet a lingering recollection of the hermit's boy, as he calls Edgar. O, name of all others! Have I dared write it in full on these pages? I must draw an obscuring line over it. There! Now,
'One last, long sigh to hope and love,Then back to busy life again.'"
'One last, long sigh to hope and love,Then back to busy life again.'"
'One last, long sigh to hope and love,
Then back to busy life again.'"
While Florence was occupied with her journal in the room above, Col. Malcome sat with her father in the parlor below, and that which she had feared might some time come to pass had actually occurred; and when she nestled down on her soft pillow and sank to sleep, if her slumbers were not tranquil and dreamless, they were sweeter than any she might know for many a weary night to come; for she slept in blissful ignorance that she was the affianced bride of Rufus Malcome. Early on the following morning her father imparted to her the dismal intelligence.
"I have accepted him," said Major Howard, "on the conditions that the engagement shall remain a secret between the families, and the union not be consummated for at least one year, as you are both young. Col. Malcome will give his son fifty thousand dollars on his marriage, and also a splendid situation wherever he chooses to reside."
He ceased, and Florence remained silent and abstracted.
"This will be a match suitable for my daughter," said the fond father, approaching and laying his hand affectionately on her bowed head. "Does she not agree with me?"
Florence lifted her face; the light seemed suddenly to have gone out of her eyes and left them in utter darkness. No tinge of color glowed on her features, which worked with painful and scarcely suppressed emotion. The father started back on beholding her. "My child!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
"Leave me alone, father, I entreat of you!" she said.
"Not till you tell me what is distressing you so," said he, chafing her cold hands in his. "Is this engagement so repulsive, so averse to your feelings, as to cause this appearance of agony and distress?"
But she only said, "Leave me, dear father, I entreat you, for a while! I have a sudden illness. By and by I will speak to you."
Awed by her tone and manner, the fond father obeyed. An hour passed by, during which the grief-stricken girl never moved, when the door opened, and Hannah Doliver entered. She glowered on Florence with an expression of hate and gratified revenge, which changed to one of fawning fondness when the pale, tear-stained face was turned toward her. "Pray, don't sit here in the cold all day!" said she. "Your mother desires you to come to her."
Florence wrapped her rich dressing-gown around her, stole down the stairs and entered the apartment of the invalid, who reached her wasted arm from the bed as she approached, and clasped it round the slender, graceful waist. The young girl bowed her head on the pillow, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"He held a letter in his withered handWhich brought good tidings of the absent one.O, what soul-cheering things are letters, whenThey come fresh from the hand of one we love,All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"
"He held a letter in his withered handWhich brought good tidings of the absent one.O, what soul-cheering things are letters, whenThey come fresh from the hand of one we love,All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"
"He held a letter in his withered hand
Which brought good tidings of the absent one.
O, what soul-cheering things are letters, when
They come fresh from the hand of one we love,
All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"
The wailing winds swept onward with low and piteous sound, while the "Hermit of the Cedars" sat beneath his humble roof, beside a rough table, and, by the light of a tallow candle, pored over a closely-written page. In the recess of the small window, a bright-haired boy was sitting, very like the dreamy Edgar who sat there in summers and seasons passed by, and watched the stars gleaming, like showers of diamonds, through the interlacing forest-boughs. But it was not Edgar, for he was far away, storing his mind from the mines of ancient lore.
It was our little friend, Willie Danforth, the washerwoman's boy, for whom the hermit had taken a large fancy since Edgar left him, and often coaxed him from his mother to pass a few nights at the hut in the forest. Willie, as we see him now, in the place where we were wont to behold Edgar, is certainly wonderfully like him; and so thought Florence Howard, when she saw the tall, graceful youth, in the same morocco cap and blue frock coat Edgar used to wear, wending his way past her father's mansion to the seminary on the hill. She sought to learn his name; and some person, not very well informed, said 'twas William Greyson, another foundling of that strange hermit's.
But we wander from the lonely man, who still pores over the sheet he holds in his attenuated fingers. It is a letter from Edgar Lindenwood.
"Dear, dear uncle," it runs, "gladly I turn from musty tomes of olden time lore, to give to you the star-lit midnight hour. Fancy, on airy pinions, flits away over mountain-top and valley, and rests upon that long arm of the tall linden, that stretches close to your lowly window, and gazes through the narrow panes on your dear form, bending over some treasured volume, or sitting, with bowed head, before a blazing fire, lost in reveries of thought and contemplation. You express a fear that I may have deemed you arbitrary and severe in the control sometimes exercised over my humors and inclinations. Your fear is groundless, uncle. Though some of your commands may have cost me a struggle ere I could unmurmuringly obey, I have too high an estimate of your judgment and discrimination to rebel against an authority I feel is grounded in reason, and only exercised for my benefit and welfare in future life.
"I remember a tale, my mother oft breathed in my infantine ears, of a bright star that once skirted the literary horizon, and ere long darkly disappeared; of a lofty, sensitive nature, that met a staggering blow, and reeled to earth, no more to soar aloft. And, though I have never known the details of that early disappointment, I regard, with overflowing reverence, sympathy, and devotional affection, the suffering, uncomplaining heart that struggles silently on, with its wreck of youthful hopes and aspirations.
"Shall I tell you, uncle, my university life promises to be a brief one? You will think it augurs badly for the erudition of the faculty of this institution, when I inform you that they have placed me among the senior class, which will graduate in the coming spring. Then I propose to take a brief tour of travel, and amuse myself by sketching from the beautiful scenery of this country. I find the passion for art increases with my years. Once I wished to be a poet, but now the painter's pencil yields me most delight.
"Ere long I hope to return to that home among the Cedars, and sit down to quiet evenings by my dear uncle's side, with no sound in our ears save the eternal roar of the mighty forest winds.
"Far from experiencing a jealous pang, I rejoice to learn you have found an object of interest in the youth you have taken under your care. May he prove a grateful companion to your solitude, is the sincere wish of, Yours, most truly,Edgar."
Such were the contents of the letter which the hermit perused several times ere he folded it, and turned his attention to the boy, who was still sitting by the small window, gazing forth into the windy night.
"William," said he—and the lad approached.
Something seemed trembling on the thin lips of the recluse which he hesitated to reveal. At length, as if suddenly changing his purpose, he said: "Do you think your mother is comfortable, to-night, my boy?"
"O, yes, sir!" answered Willie, "the large bundle of sticks you left at her door yesterday evening will keep her warm for several days."
"I hope they may," returned the hermit; "'tis a sad thing to be poor, Willie, but 'tis a sadder thing to be wicked."
"You do not think my mother is wicked, do you?" asked the boy, turning his blue eyes quickly on the hermit's countenance.
"Why do you ask?" said he, returning Willie's startled glance with a grave smile.
"Because I knew Mr. Pimble's folks said harsh things of her, and I didn't know but you believed them, as you never chose to enter our humble abode."
"My gloomy disposition is averse to intercourse with the generality of my species," returned the hermit, in a solemn tone; "nor do I ever heed or hear the tales and gossipings of idle lips. In the last ten years I have held no converse with any human beings, save you and your —— and my nephew, Edgar Lindenwood."
Willie gazed on the strange man before him in silent awe. "Has your mother ever expressed a wish to see me?" inquired the hermit, after a pause.
"Often," said Willie.
"For what purpose?" demanded the recluse, in a quick, sudden tone, looking eagerly on the boy's face.
"To thank you for all your kindness to her," replied the lad, ingenuously.
"O, yes!" returned the solitary man, his features relapsing into their usual placid serenity. "I wish not, nor deserve, her thanks for the humble charities given. Let us seek our couch, my boy."
"Have you another name than William?" he asked, as they were lying down.
"Yes," answered the youth; "William Ralph is my name,—the first for my father, the second for an uncle who went to distant countries, ere I can remember, and has never been heard of since."
"Was the uncle your father's or mother's brother?" inquired the hermit, in a careless tone.
"My mother's. Ralph Greyson was his name."
"And does your mother appear to mourn his loss, or wish for his return?" said the hermit, still in the same careless, half-absorbed tone of voice.
"She speaks pityingly of him sometimes, for he was a bright, promising youth, she says, when one distressful circumstance crushed his hopes and ruined his usefulness; but I do not think she desires his return, for he left his native shores cursing her as the cause of his misfortunes."
"Ah! how had she caused his misfortunes?" asked the hermit, drowsily.
"By marrying below her sphere," said Willie, in a trembling, embarrassed tone; "a man who proved a vulgar sot, and thus disgracing him in the eyes of a proud family, with whom he sought an alliance."
As Willie ceased speaking, the hermit breathed heavily, as if in deep sleep; so, turning his face to the cedar-plaited wall, the lad was soon wrapped in his own sweet, youthful slumbers.
CHAPTER XXV.