"Wasting away—away—away,Slowly, silently, day after day.Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."
"Wasting away—away—away,Slowly, silently, day after day.Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."
"Wasting away—away—away,
Slowly, silently, day after day.
Fainter, and fainter and fainter the flow,
Of the current of life more sluggish and slow,
And a ghastly glare in the glassy eye,
And the wan cheek tinged with a hectic dye."
In the dim gloom of a soft spring evening, a slender, graceful form bent silently over a low, curtained couch, gently fanning the annoying insects from the pale brow of its slumbering occupant. The apartment was furnished with almost princely magnificence. Curtains of the richest blue-wrought damask, hung in massy folds from ceiling to floor, before the deep bay-windows. Rosewood sofas and fauteuils, in costly coverings of the same soft color, rested on the brilliantly interwoven flowers of the Persian carpet, whose velvety softness echoed not the slightest tread. A fairy chandelier hung suspended from the lofty, corniced ceiling. Rare statuary decorated the mantel. Large mirrors and pictures in broad gilt frames adorned the walls. Marble stands, covered with deep-fringed cloths of gold, on which lay books in superb bindings, graced the several corners, and the carved mahogany bedstead, behind whose ample curtains of azure velvet the sleeper reposed, among white-piled cushions of softest down, vied in elegant luxury with the couch of an eastern princess. And there, with one white, wasted arm thrown above the head, all shorn of its bright wealth of auburn curls, and the other concealed 'neath the silken coverings, lay Edith Malcome, the blue veins almost starting from her pale brow, and a bright crimson spot on the sunken cheek. Alas, that earth's most lovely should fall the earliest victims to the withering hand of disease! The door did softly asunder, and her father entered. With an expression of deep care and suffering depicted on his handsome features, he approached the bed-side.
"Is she still sleeping?" demanded he, in a whisper which would have been inaudible to an ear less quick than that of the silent watcher.
"She is," was the ready answer, in the same hushed tone. He gazed intently for several moments on the attenuated form before him, while every variety of expression passed over his countenance.
"If she dies," said he, at length, in a voice broken with grief, "what will be left on earth to me?"
The watcher was deeply affected by his grief-stricken appearance. "O, speak not thus!" she said, bursting into tears. "She will not die; the doctor has given us better hopes to-day. But even if she were to be taken to her home in the skies, you must not say there's nothing left on earth for you. You, so bright in soul and intellect, surrounded by admiring friends and all the luxuries of princely wealth, with a son to perpetuate your name"——
"Say no more," interrupted the afflicted man. "I cannot endure your words."
Louise was grieved to see she had only wounded where she meant to soothe, and, with a gentle, impulsive movement, placed her hand on the soft black curls of the head that was bowed among the cushions of the bed, and said, "Forgive me, I meant not to afflict."
Silently he took the little hand in his, and placed it on his throbbing temples. Louise trembled.
"Your brow is feverish," said she at length, seeking an excuse to withdraw the imprisoned hand; "let me bathe it in some cooling lotion."
"No," said he, "this moist little palm is better than any lotion," still detaining it, as she sought to reach the stand which contained a quantity of vials on a silver tray. The slight movements aroused Edith. Opening her large, spiritual eyes, she gazed up in the faces of the watchers at her bed-side, with a vague, dreamy expression.
"Don't you know me, Edith?" asked her father, bending quickly over her.
"O, yes, father!" answered she faintly; "and that lady is my mother," she added, staring confusedly upon Louise, as if not yet in full possession of her waking faculties.
Louise looked embarrassed, and the colonel hastened to say, "That is Mrs. Edson, my dear, who watches with you to-night. You are wandering a little, I fear."
"Well, where is my mother, then?" continued Edith, in the same strange manner, which appeared to agitate her father deeply.
"My child," said he, in a soothing tone, "have I not often told you your mother died when you was a very little girl?"
"I don't know," said Edith, "but last night I dreamed she came with a pale face and bloody lips and stared so mournfully upon me. I wish you would go and bring her to me, father."
"My daughter, do I not tell you she is in her grave?" said the father, trembling with emotion. "How can I bring her to you?"
"Hannah Doliver told Rufus she would come if you would let her," continued the sick girl, in a reproachful tone, apparently not understanding her father's words.
On hearing this, Col. Malcome started with a violent exclamation, which alarmed Edith, and brought her at once into full possession of her senses. Louise, who had marked, with her quick eye, the colonel's strange excitement, approached and administered a reviving cordial to the invalid. The father soon retired, leaving the watcher alone with her charge.
As the hours dragged slowly on, many were the thoughts which passed through Mrs. Edson's active brain, as to the cause of Edith's singular words, and the anger and excitement evinced by her father. At length the gray morning dawned, and Sylva, Edith's attendant, appeared to relieve the watcher from her post.
As Louise was passing through the hall to gain the street, the door suddenly opened, and Col. Malcome entered in cap and overcoat. He paused and inquired if his daughter had passed a comfortable night, and, on receiving an affirmative answer, proceeded to the drawing-room.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"The old days we remember;How softly did they glide!While, all untouched by worldly care,We wandered side by side.In those pleasant days, when the sun's last raysJust lingered on the hill;Or the moon's pale light, with the coming night,Shone o'er our pathway still."The old days we remember,O, there's nothing like them now!The glow has faded from our hearts,The blossom from the bough.A bitter sigh for the hours gone by,The dreams that might not last;The friends deemed true when our hopes were new,And the glorious visions past."
"The old days we remember;How softly did they glide!While, all untouched by worldly care,We wandered side by side.In those pleasant days, when the sun's last raysJust lingered on the hill;Or the moon's pale light, with the coming night,Shone o'er our pathway still.
"The old days we remember;
How softly did they glide!
While, all untouched by worldly care,
We wandered side by side.
In those pleasant days, when the sun's last rays
Just lingered on the hill;
Or the moon's pale light, with the coming night,
Shone o'er our pathway still.
"The old days we remember,O, there's nothing like them now!The glow has faded from our hearts,The blossom from the bough.A bitter sigh for the hours gone by,The dreams that might not last;The friends deemed true when our hopes were new,And the glorious visions past."
"The old days we remember,
O, there's nothing like them now!
The glow has faded from our hearts,
The blossom from the bough.
A bitter sigh for the hours gone by,
The dreams that might not last;
The friends deemed true when our hopes were new,
And the glorious visions past."
Rufus Malcome, as the accepted suitor of Florence, paid regular visits to her father's mansion. Great was the glee of Hannah Doliver to behold the young couple together; and great the nervous disquiet evinced by the invalided Mrs. Howard when she was aware of the young man's presence in the house. She had never met him, as her health, which had in the last six months rapidly declined, confined her now entirely to her room, and indisposed her more strongly than ever to behold strange faces.
The only person she had ever been known to express a wish to see, since her residence in Wimbledon, was Edith Malcome,—a wish excited, perhaps, by Florence's warm praises of the grace and beauty of her young friend, who was as different from Rufus, she said, "as a sweet pink from an odious poppy."
But Edith, strange as it may appear, had never visited at the Howards', though often warmly invited by the whole family.
The colonel invariably excused her in his easy, graceful manner, saying she was "a timid little thing, and dreaded to go for a moment from her father's side." Latterly, her illness had been sufficient reason for her seclusion.
Florence was restricted from frequent visits to her sick friend by the state of her own health, which had grown so feeble and delicate as to alarm her father exceedingly. Dr. Potipher was consulted, and strongly advised travel and change of scene as the most effectual remedy for the feverish disease that seemed preying upon her constitution.
Major Howard was very willing to take his daughter on a tour of travel, but knew not how to leave his invalid lady, whose strength he thought to be gradually failing. She was far too low for him to indulge the idea of making her one of the party, and he was about relinquishing the project in despair, when, on mentioning the subject to the sick woman, great was his surprise to find her even more anxious and earnest for his departure than he was to go. She said "she should do very well without him,—she always mended as summer approached, and Florence was drooping from long and close confinement. She needed exercise and change of scene, and it was his duty to do all in his power to restore her to health and cheerfulness." Major Howard felt the only obstacle removed by the invalid's assent and hearty coöperation; so Florence was informed of the project, and preparations immediately commenced for her tour.
It was a pleasant April evening as she sat in her luxurious apartment with her journal open before her. "The last of these bright spring evenings that I am to pass at home is closing in around me," she wrote. "My trunks are packed and closed down, and to-morrow I am to start on a tour of travel. How my long torpid bosom bounds at the thought! I shall sail up that picturesque Hudson! I shall look on glorious Niagara! But I fear my anticipations are too brilliant. Something will occur to dreg my expected draught of happiness with sorrow. Thus it has ever been! Too well I know I shall return to become the bride of one I detest; but I will not let that thought embitter my enjoyment of the wonders and beauties I shall behold. Besides, in so long a time as I shall be absent, what may occur? Ah, I have written words that make me shudder! I fear I may return to find the snows covering my mother's grave. Why do I leave her? Is it not selfishness to allow her to urge me away when it is her own generous care and affection for me which prompt her to do so? There is something strange in the way she speaks of my matrimonial engagement. I am sure it does not meet her approval, though she gave her consent, as she always does to everything upon which father sets his mind. She evidently dreads its consummation, perhaps because she has discovered my aversion for the man I am to marry. As to Hannah Doliver, she is wonderfully mollified toward me of late; but her fawning fondness is more intolerable than her asperity and impertinence. Nothing seems to delight her so much as to behold Rufus Malcome in company with me. I caught her watching at the parlor-door this evening when he called in company with his father to leave his adieus. She accompanied them to the door and remained several minutes in conversation in the hall. I found her in the kitchen a short time after, and she was muttering to herself and slamming things about in a great rage. When she discovered me she ceased, and grew suddenly as sunny as summer. She is a strange, dark, intriguing woman, I fear, and wish we were well quit of her. I asked mother if she had not better discharge her, and get a new person to attend her during our absence; but she said, with a sudden expression of alarm, 'O, no; she would not part with Hannah on any account!' So I said no more, but fancied her preference was dictated more by fear than love. But I spin out a long record for this last evening at home. O, budding vines and flowers! who will train your rich luxuriance into fairy, fantastic clusterings, or watch your opening petals in the summer which is to come? Who listen to the babbling fountains, or roam the cedar-walks that border the dancing river? And O, the far, far-stretching forest, from whose mysterious depths, in a bright year passed away, I sawhimemerge, and hurried down the gravelled path to meet him at the garden-gate, with happy, bounding heart! Will new scenes, however glad and gay, e'er dim the memory of those dear times? Never!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
"It is a pleasant thing to roam abroad,And gaze on scenes and objects strange and grand;To sail in mighty ships o'er distant seas,And roam the mountains of a foreign land."
"It is a pleasant thing to roam abroad,And gaze on scenes and objects strange and grand;To sail in mighty ships o'er distant seas,And roam the mountains of a foreign land."
"It is a pleasant thing to roam abroad,
And gaze on scenes and objects strange and grand;
To sail in mighty ships o'er distant seas,
And roam the mountains of a foreign land."
In Mrs. Stanhope's pretty cottage, close by the vine-shaded window, sat Jenny Andrews, and she said Florence Howard had started on a tour of travel.
"Who is her companion?" asked Mrs. Stanhope.
"Why, Rufus Malcome, of course," said Miss Pinkerton, quickly.
"No," said Jenny, "her father."
"Her father!" exclaimed Miss Martha, in a tone of surprise. "How in the world could he leave his sick wife, I should like to know?"
"Mrs. Howard is getting better, I believe," remarked Jenny.
"Well, that's strange enough," continued Miss Pinkerton; "with that impudent Hannah Doliver for a nurse, I wonder she has not died before now."
Hannah Doliver was Miss Martha's utter detestation, though why, we cannot tell, as the little dark woman had never injured her, nor had Miss Pinkerton ever exchanged above a dozen syllables with her in her life. But it was one of those unaccountable dislikes which often arise in people of certain temperaments, on first sight of a particular individual.
Mrs. Stanhope said she was glad Florence had gone a journey, for the dear girl had looked pale and sickly of late, and she thought change of scene might be beneficial to her health.
Miss Martha inquired if Jenny knew how Edith Malcome was getting along.
"I have just come from her," said Jenny; "she is very much changed. All her beautiful hair has been cut away, and she is, O, so thin and wasted! But they call her slowly improving."
"Who takes care of her?" asked Miss P.
"Her waiting-woman, Sylva, I believe," returned Jenny.
"Well, it must be very hard for her to do it all the time," said Martha; "if they would just ask me, I would go any time and assist them."
"Mrs. Edson is there considerable," remarked Jenny.
"I know she is; most too much for her credit," returned Miss Pinkerton; "if a man has a wife, he wants her at home sometimes."
"Why, Martha!" observed Mrs. Stanhope, mildly; "I never heard a reproachful word of Mrs. Edson breathed by any person."
"Neither did I," said Jenny, rising; "and if I do, I shan't believe it, for I think she is the dearest, sweetest creature in the world."
"With the exception of one Mr. Richard Giblet," remarked Miss Pinkerton, in a tone she conceived to be vastly witty and piquant.
Jenny's blush, as she bade good-morning, crowned the malicious maiden's triumph.
On this same morning, Mrs. Edson sat at her elegant rosewood piano, carelessly striking the ivory keys, when she heard a light footstep, and turning, beheld Col. Malcome advancing to her side. She was a little angry that he had entered unannounced, and her cheeks flushed, as she rather briefly bade him welcome.
"I beg your pardon for entering so informally," said he, at once interpreting the expression of her face. "Your doors were all ajar, and I saw no one to announce me."
"Had you rung, some one would have appeared," said Louise, with a slight curl of her red lip.
"Well, I beg your pardon for not doing so," returned he. "Will you grant it?"
There was something in the rueful appearance he assumed, which forced her to laugh in spite of her efforts at dignity and restraint, and thus he was reinstated in her good graces.
"Are you playing?" he asked, touching his own fingers upon the keys, but at a respectful distance from hers.
"No," she returned. "I have practised so little of late I have lost all my ear. Won't you favor me with that thrilling piece from Beethoven, you performed on the first evening of our acquaintance?" She looked eagerly in his face as she spoke.
"What will you do for me if I will?" he asked.
"O, anything in my power!" she replied, rising, and motioning him to assume the music-stool, which he did very readily. Skilfully running over the keys, by way of prelude, while she stood leaning gracefully against the instrument, intently regarding his movements, he commenced the symphony. The swelling notes rose on the air in brilliant variety, and when, at the end of the second chorus, the rich, mellow tones of his voice were added, Louise dropped on her knees beside the performer, while tears gathered in her eyes and rolled over her beautiful face. He did not seem to heed her position, so intently was his soul occupied with the music his lips were breathing. At length the last magic strain died mournfully away. Then he rested his deep blue eyes calmly on her glowing features.
"What shall I do for you?" she asked, smiling.
"You promised," answered he, "to do anything I wished, if I would sing the piece."
"So I will," returned she, earnestly.
"Then," said he, in a low, thrilling tone, "as Steerforth said to David, think of me at my best."
She looked at him eagerly. "Is that all?" she asked.
"That is enough," he answered; "will you promisealwaysto do that?"
She paused a few moments, and then answered, in a tone which indicated her whole soul spoke in the words, "Yes, I promise."
"Thank you," said he, extending his hand.
She gave him hers. He held it a moment in his own. Then, pressing it respectfully to his lips, bade her good-morning, and retired.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"And when in other climes we meet,Some isle or vale enchanting,And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,And naught but love is wanting,We think how blest had been our fate,If Heaven had but assigned usTo live and die 'mid scenes like this,With some we've left behind us."
"And when in other climes we meet,Some isle or vale enchanting,And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,And naught but love is wanting,We think how blest had been our fate,If Heaven had but assigned usTo live and die 'mid scenes like this,With some we've left behind us."
"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."
Shout, reader, on the hill-tops of deliverance, for you and I are out of Wimbledon. We have left behind us the Pimbles, the Mumbles, the Simcoes, and their multitudinous voices grow indistinct in the distance, as, borne by the rushing steam-steed, we fly on our way in search of our fair traveller, who has got the start of us by several hours. We hardly know whether to go up the Hudson, or hold straight on over the Erie road for Niagara; but as we have no particular desire to see the former, our remembrances of its picturesque scenery being marred by the unpleasant circumstances under which we first beheld it, we incline to the latter course.
So world-wondered-at Niagara shall be our destination, where Florence Howard and her father are already arrived and installed occupants of a regally-furnished suite of apartments at the Clifton House on the Canada side of the river.
The new arrival had created quite a sensation; as new arrivals at these fashionable watering-places, where the masses resort to display themselves and behold and comment upon the display of others, always do. As Florence, dressed with simple grace, leaned on the arm of her noble-looking father, and entered the spacious dining-saloon, where hundreds of both sexes, all flaunted out in the gayest and richest attire, were already seated at the splendidly laid tables, every eye levelled a critical glance on her garb and figure. Many an elegant lady, in startling silks and astonishing ear-jewels, turned her nose sublimely skyward and exclaimed "No great fetch,—these folks!" Gentlemen, in surprising pants and prodigious vest buttons, said, with a princely contempt, "Aw, an unsawphistawcated country gawl!"
But there were some, the precious few, who graced the saloons of the Clifton House, not to gorge themselves on its spicy viands, or grow inebriate over its sparkling wines, or yet to display their spindling limbs encased in miraculous tights, their alarming waistcoats and elephantine fob-chains; but who had come to look on and admire the wonderful cataract, with its surrounding scenery of wildness and grandeur; who marked the elegant bearing of an accomplished lady in the sweet open countenance, simple dress, and graceful movements of the "new arrival."
Florence seemed wholly regardless of the volleys of glances directed toward her during the sumptuously-served dinner. She retired before dessert, so great was her impatience of a nearer view of the sublime spectacle visible from the piazzas of the Clifton House.
On Table Rock she stood, with her father's arm cast protectingly around her, and gazed, tremulous with intense emotion, on the tremendous sweep of rushing waters over the mighty horse-shoe fall, down, down forever, upon the floods that boiled and surged like fathomless seas of angry foam in the depths below. Then she turned to the lofty American fall, spanned by its brilliant rainbow, like the bright wing of the Spirit of the Waters cast beauteously o'er her stupendous creation of power and sublimity.
Florence gazed till the shades of evening obscured the magnificent scene, and then, clinging to her father's arm, returned to the hotel. On gaining her room, she tossed off her bonnet and shawl and seized her journal.
"Are you not going to tea?" asked her father.
"No," answered she, almost sharply. "I cannot so suddenly descend to the actual, or come in so quick contact with the grossness of earth after the god-like sublimity I have been contemplating."
Her father called her a little enthusiast, and walked away. Left to herself she drew forth her journal.
"Eventful day!" she wrote. "I have stood among the mists of Niagara. Fain would I voice the tumult flood of emotions that rushed over my soul as I gazed on its wondrous sublimity: but language is impotent, and I am weak,—weaker than usual; I think from reaction of my overstrained powers.
"I could lie down and weep like a tired child. The tremendous roar of the mighty waters is in my ear as I write. O, Niagara, Niagara! what henceforth will be to me the brightest scene our country can afford—for I have looked on thee, and what is left me now?"
She closed her book, and, stepping out on the piazza, leaned her arms over the balustrade, and stood with her gaze riveted on the boiling cataracts, now flashing like sheets of burnished silver in the soft moonlight. While she was thus occupied a young lady approached and accosted her.
"You are just arrived at the Falls, I fancy," said she, with a pleasant smile.
"I arrived to-day," answered Florence, politely.
"You do not know me," remarked the young lady; "but I think I have seen you before."
Florence gazed on the eloquent features, but she did not detect a resemblance to any person she had ever known.
"You have the advantage of me," she said; "I do not recollect you."
"Probably not," returned the young lady; "but did you never reside in a village called Wimbledon, at a beautiful mansion styled 'Summer House?'"
"I have just come from there," said Florence, gazing with surprise in the face of her fair interrogator.
"So I thought," remarked the young lady, "and your name, excuse my boldness, is Florence Howard. Mine is Ellen Williams. I once resided in Wimbledon, and saw you several times at the village church. You, probably, did not notice me, or, if you did, my features would be easily forgotten. Not so yours. I recognized you the moment you entered the dining hall. How do you like Niagara?"
"O, I am charmed, spell-bound!" exclaimed Florence. "Its glorious sublimity thrills to the centre of my soul."
"Your enthusiasm reminds me of a young painter and poet we have had here several weeks," said Miss Williams; "he left us only this morning. I was down to the Suspension Bridge to-day, and read some verses he left in pencil on the painted railings. His sketches of the Falls from different points of view were very fine. He was very handsome, and had a sweet name. I believe half the ladies were dead in love with him, but he never bestowed a single encouraging glance on all their attempts to win his favor."
"Quite an insensible young man, I should think," said Florence, smiling. "What did you say was his name?"
"Lindenwood," returned Miss Williams. "I do not know whence he came, but from some remote part of the country, I think."
Florence heard none of the young lady's words after the name was mentioned, and it is difficult to say into what awkwardness her emotion might have betrayed her, had not her father appeared at this juncture and called her to her room. She recollected herself sufficiently to bid good-evening to Miss Williams as she hastened away leaning heavily on her father's arm.
Fastening her door, she dropped on a sofa, and exclaimed, "Alas, alas! one day too late at Niagara."
CHAPTER XXIX.
"Flow on forever in thy glorious robeOf terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on,Unfathomed and resistless! God hath setHis rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloudMantled around thy feet.Methinks, to tintThy glorious features with our pencil's point,Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,Were profanation."
"Flow on forever in thy glorious robeOf terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on,Unfathomed and resistless! God hath setHis rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloudMantled around thy feet.Methinks, to tintThy glorious features with our pencil's point,Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,Were profanation."
"Flow on forever in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on,
Unfathomed and resistless! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.
Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation."
Early the following morning Florence was astir, begging her father to take her to the Suspension Bridge. She hardly glanced at the magnificent appearance of the Canada fall, as the sunbeams changed its floods of spray into bright showers of diamonds.
There she stood on the piazza, her cheeks flushed with vermilion, and her dark eyes glowing with the animation and excitement within.
"I cannot take you to the bridge till after breakfast," said her father, in reply to her urgent appeals to set out immediately.
"Must I wait so long?" said Florence dismally.
While the father and daughter stood debating the point, Florence's acquaintance of the preceding day appeared, attended by a handsome young man, whom she introduced as her brother Edward.
Major Howard recollected the Williams family, and seemed gratified to renew his acquaintance.
"Col. Malcome occupies your old residence," said he to the young man, as they left the ladies to themselves and walked to the opposite side of the piazza.
After a pause, Florence asked her companion if she "had ever visited Wimbledon since she left it."
"No;" answered the young lady, "though I have often desired to do so. There was a poor washerwoman there, who had a little boy about my own age, in whom I took a childish interest, and I would like much to learn something of his fate."
"What was his name?" asked Florence.
"Willie Danforth," said Miss Williams.
"I know a washerwoman by the name of Dilly Danforth," returned Florence.
"That is his mother."
"I do not think she has a child," said Florence doubtfully.
"Then he is dead!" said Miss Williams in a trembling voice.
Florence pitied her emotion, and after a few moments said, "There is a tall, graceful lad, I think they call Willie Greyson, who lives with the strange forest-recluse, of whom you have heard, perhaps."
"Greyson!" repeated Ellen; "that I have heard was Mrs. Danforth's maiden name; but Willie was never called so; besides, why should he leave his mother to dwell with a hermit? O, no; my Willie must be dead! I said, when I left him, I should never see him again." And the gentle girl wiped a tear from her sweet blue eye.
The gentlemen now approached, and Major Howard invited the Williamses to join them in their visit to the Suspension Bridge; but they had an engagement with a party to visit Goat Island. Florence felt relieved to hear this, for she preferred, for reasons of her own, to be attended by no one but her father on the present excursion. They now descended to the dining-hall, where an elegant breakfast was served. Florence ate but a few tiny bits of a delicate crisp muffin, and sipped lightly at her cup of fragrant Mocha. Her eager desire to gain the bridge destroyed all relish for the dainty dishes spread in such variety and profusion before her. At length her father announced a carriage in readiness. Hastily folding a sheet of note-paper, and placing it in her pocket, she swung her gold chain over her neck, to which was attached a richly-embossed pencil, and followed him to the door. They were soon rolling away.
Florence saw nothing till they gained the bridge,—frail, trembling thing, thrown at such dizzy height above the wild, rushing river. Her father asked if she would ride or walk over. She would walk, and he ordered the driver to halt. Assisting her from the carriage, they stepped upon the swaying fabric. Florence kept close to the railings, though he cautioned her to walk in the centre, and called her attention to the fine view of the falls in the distance. But she did not notice them, and, pausing suddenly, drew the sheet of note-paper from her pocket and commenced writing.
"What are you doing?" said her father at length, noticing her head bowed close to the railing.
"Wait a moment and I'll tell you," said she. "There! I believe I have them all correct now. Shall I read them to you?"
"What are they?" asked he.
"Verses. I found them written in pencil on this painted strip."
"Are they worth reading?" inquired he, carelessly.
"O, yes!" she returned, earnestly. "Very pretty, I think!"
"Well, go on, then!" said he.
She commenced in a low tone, which grew in depth and sweetness as she proceeded. Surely, if the author had never had the vanity to deem his brief production possessed of merit, he would have grown into conceit of it had he heard it falling so sweetly from those half-tremulous lips.
"Sea-green river, white and foamy,Madly rushing on below;While that fairy-looking fabricBends, and sways, and trembles so;Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,Boldly thrown so wildly high;Wondrous work of art suspendedMidway 'twixt the earth and sky!"Strong and firm the metal wiresStretch to Canada's green shores;As to link with bands of ironQueen Victoria's realms to ours.Passage-way for England's lion,Unborn ages may it be;While above him, in the ether,Sails the Eagle of the Free!"In the distance, dread Niagara,Thing of wonder and of fear,Pours its mighty flood of waters,While the echoes soothe the ear.Nature's wildest forms of beauty.All around profusely thrown;Bowing in her proudest temple,Beggared Art, we humbly own!"
"Sea-green river, white and foamy,Madly rushing on below;While that fairy-looking fabricBends, and sways, and trembles so;Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,Boldly thrown so wildly high;Wondrous work of art suspendedMidway 'twixt the earth and sky!
"Sea-green river, white and foamy,
Madly rushing on below;
While that fairy-looking fabric
Bends, and sways, and trembles so;
Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,
Boldly thrown so wildly high;
Wondrous work of art suspended
Midway 'twixt the earth and sky!
"Strong and firm the metal wiresStretch to Canada's green shores;As to link with bands of ironQueen Victoria's realms to ours.Passage-way for England's lion,Unborn ages may it be;While above him, in the ether,Sails the Eagle of the Free!
"Strong and firm the metal wires
Stretch to Canada's green shores;
As to link with bands of iron
Queen Victoria's realms to ours.
Passage-way for England's lion,
Unborn ages may it be;
While above him, in the ether,
Sails the Eagle of the Free!
"In the distance, dread Niagara,Thing of wonder and of fear,Pours its mighty flood of waters,While the echoes soothe the ear.Nature's wildest forms of beauty.All around profusely thrown;Bowing in her proudest temple,Beggared Art, we humbly own!"
"In the distance, dread Niagara,
Thing of wonder and of fear,
Pours its mighty flood of waters,
While the echoes soothe the ear.
Nature's wildest forms of beauty.
All around profusely thrown;
Bowing in her proudest temple,
Beggared Art, we humbly own!"
As Florence ceased she refolded the paper and placed it in her pocket.
"You did not read the author's name," said her father.
"There was no name attached to them," answered she. "Nothing, only some initials which were rather indistinct."
"Some modest bard," remarked the major, as they retraced their steps to the carriage, "who, as Byron says,
'Like many a bard unknown,Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'
'Like many a bard unknown,Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'
'Like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'
This poet sings of bridges, but does not sign his name to his songs."
Florence was silent during their drive to the hotel. Niagara seemed suddenly to have lost its interest for her, and after a few more days they departed, with young Williams and his lovable little sister in their company.
CHAPTER XXX.
"O, why should Heaven smileOn deeds of darkness—plots of sin and crime?I cannot tell thee why,But this I know, she often doeth so."
"O, why should Heaven smileOn deeds of darkness—plots of sin and crime?I cannot tell thee why,But this I know, she often doeth so."
"O, why should Heaven smile
On deeds of darkness—plots of sin and crime?
I cannot tell thee why,
But this I know, she often doeth so."
While the bright summer passed over Wimbledon, matters apparently moved on as usual in the quiet little village.
The Woman's Rights Reform lagged somewhat with the thermometer at eighty, as is frequently the case with benevolent organizations; perhaps because their zealous warmth, when increased by a high-temperatured atmosphere, mounts to spirits' boil and evaporates.
Mrs. Pimble and Mrs. Lawson sat on their respective piazzas, in nankin pants and open waistcoats, and flapped great peacocks' tails to and fro, to cool their feverish, perspiring brows.
Mr. Pimble, in his wife's sun-bonnet, clappered his heelless slippers at mid-day along the garden paths, in the vain hope of warming his laggard blood to a brisker flow. Mrs. Dr. Simcoe was still harassed by those snarling, ill-tempered brats, "Simcoe's children," who seemed contagiously disposed to all the "ills which flesh is heir to," as if to test the skill and try the patience of the lady M. D.
One of the most brilliant moons that ever showered its silvery light over a flower-covered earth, rode in the liquid zenith of a summer heaven. The splendid grounds of Major Howard's princely mansion never slept, in their luxuriant beauty, beneath a lovelier sky. Thick trailed the heavy vines in their leafy exuberance of foliage over arbors and green-houses. Whole parterres of brilliant flowers loaded the air with fragrance, and nightingales sang among the boughs of the lindens that waved against the wrought-iron palings of the terraces.
Was there aught save the breath of love and peace abroad on the air to-night? Dared a vile vulture of sin to brush with polluting wing over the vines and flowers of these odor-breathing, beam-lighted gardens?
There were low voices in one of the most obscure alcoves, and a man and woman stood in close proximity in its dimmest recess.
A low sigh or sob now and then escaped the woman, as though she struggled to suppress some choking emotion.
"Come," said the man at length, impatiently, "this blubbering will not aid your purpose."
"O, Herbert!" she exclaimed, in a tone which entreated compassion, "you have ceased to love me."
"Ceased to love you?" repeated he, with a low, ironical laugh, "I never yet began."
"You told me so," said she.
"What if I did?" returned he; "is my veracity so immaculate that my slightest word is received as an oath of probity? But I came not here to keep a lover's tryst. You know, or at least I thought you knew, the bond that unites us; and I ask you again if you will do my bidding and serve my interests?"
"I have done both," said the woman; "but you have not fulfilled your promises to me."
"Do you not see the boy when you choose?"
"I see him, but he does not recognize me."
"The better for you that he does not," returned the man. "Do you suppose, with his position and prospects, he would acknowledge a low serving-woman for a mother? He would kick her from his presence and cover her with curses."
"And do you never intend to tell him who is his mother?" asked the woman, in a trembling tone.
"Certainly not," answered he; "'tis not necessary the boy should know his own disgrace; but when the proper moment arrives, there are those who shall learn his parentage to their everlasting shame and mortification."
"I see no prospect of that moment's ever arriving," said the woman. "Here's the girl and her father gone off, the Lord knows where, or whether they will ever return, and all things left unfinished and incomplete. I must say you manage as an idiot."
"I will judge of my own management," said the man, fiercely. "There has been sickness in my family, and other things have indisposed me to hurry a revenge which will be the sweeter the longer 'tis delayed."
"But it may be so long delayed as to fail altogether," suggested the woman.
"I'll take care of that," answered he. "I fancy I am not so great a bungler as to overshoot my purposes and baffle my own designs; and, woman," said he, raising his arm threateningly above her head, "I caution you to beware. I believe you have already let drop some unguarded words; else why is your mistress so averse to this engagement, as I have learned she is, by the boy?"
The woman was silent. He seized her arm fiercely. "Have you blabbed?" he hissed in her ear.
"No," answered she faintly, and struggling to free herself from his grasp.
"Has she no suspicions of my proximity?" he demanded.
"None," returned the woman; "as I live she has none."
"Then I would look on her a moment to-night."
"That you can easily do," said she. "I left her sitting in a cushioned seat, drawn close before an open casement, with the full moon shining on her face."
"A lucky position! I will show myself to her in a few minutes," he remarked, as the twain parted. Hannah Doliver proceeded rapidly up the garden avenue to the mansion, and hurried to the apartment of her mistress.
The invalid lady was sitting in the same position in which she had left her an hour before.
"You have been absent a long time, Hannah," she observed in a languid tone.
"I went as far as Col. Malcome's to learn if they had any recent intelligence of Florence and her father," returned the woman, divesting herself of bonnet and shawl.
"Well, had he any tidings of them?" inquired the invalid.
"At last accounts they were at Saratoga, intending in a few days to start on a tour up the Hudson and St. Lawrence, to Quebec, and thence to the mountain region of New Hampshire," answered the woman.
"Florence wrote to me from Niagara," remarked the lady; "she seemed in fine spirits. I wonder if she corresponds with Rufus Malcome?"
"Of course," said Hannah; "a young lady would write to her affianced husband, if she neglected all others." The invalid turned uneasily in her chair at these words, and her waiting-woman went into an adjoining apartment under pretence of performing some duty.
The lady sat listlessly gazing on the lovely scene without, when a dark object moving up the garden path attracted her notice, and directly the figure of a man in black, with cap removed from a head of closely-trimmed auburn hair that clustered in short, thick masses of luxuriant curls around a high, pale brow, appeared before the casement, and fixed a bold stare upon her face. No sooner did her eyes encounter those that glared so fiercely upon her, than she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back in her chair with the appearance of one from whom all life had departed.
Hannah rushed into the room and bore the insensible form of her mistress to the bed, where she commenced chafing her temples and pouring reviving cordials down her throat. At length the frightened lady opened her eyes and stared wildly around.
"Secure that casement," said she, pointing to the still open window; "and shut all the doors and lock them."
"You will stifle without a breath of fresh air this oppressive night," grumbled Hannah, as she proceeded to execute the orders of her mistress.
"Better I should stifle," answered the excited and still trembling lady, "than ever behold again the monster I have seen to-night."
"Heavens! what do you mean?" exclaimed the attendant, appearing to experience the greatest emotion.
"I have seenhim, Hannah Doliver," said the invalid, shuddering as she spoke.
"Who?" asked the hypocritical woman, breathlessly.
"The destroyer of my happiness and your good fame," answered the lady.
"Impossible!" said Hannah, glaring on the excited features of the prostrate form before her.
"I tell you I have seen him!" returned the invalid, shaking like an aspen on her couch. "I cannot be mistaken. 'Twas his face; the high, colorless brow, surrounded by thick, short auburn curls. He stood at that casement, and gazed fiercely on me from his large, dark eyes."
"Pshaw!" said Hannah, "'twas but a hideous dream, or a sudden attack of apoplexy. The man you fancy you have seen to-night, has not been heard of these fifteen years, and is probably in his grave."
"Then it was his ghost that I saw," said the lady.
"May be it was," returned Hannah, smiling strangely; "though I don't know why it should have honored you with a visit. I am glad I was not deemed worthy his ghostship's regards."
The affrighted lady after a while grew calmer, and Hannah retired to her own apartment, which joined that of her mistress.
In a few days, a letter was despatched to Major Howard by the invalid, informing him of the strange appearance which had alarmed her, and urging his immediate return.
The letter never reached its destination.
CHAPTER XXXI.
"Ask why the holy starlight, or the blushOf summer blossoms, or the balm that floatsFrom yonder lily like an angel's breath,Is lavished on such men! God gives them allFor some high end; and thus the seeming wasteOf her rich soul—its starlight purity,Its every feeling delicate as a flower,Its tender trust, its generous confidence,Its wondering disdain of littleness,—These, by the coarser sense of those around herUncomprehended, may not all be vain."
"Ask why the holy starlight, or the blushOf summer blossoms, or the balm that floatsFrom yonder lily like an angel's breath,Is lavished on such men! God gives them allFor some high end; and thus the seeming wasteOf her rich soul—its starlight purity,Its every feeling delicate as a flower,Its tender trust, its generous confidence,Its wondering disdain of littleness,—These, by the coarser sense of those around herUncomprehended, may not all be vain."
"Ask why the holy starlight, or the blush
Of summer blossoms, or the balm that floats
From yonder lily like an angel's breath,
Is lavished on such men! God gives them all
For some high end; and thus the seeming waste
Of her rich soul—its starlight purity,
Its every feeling delicate as a flower,
Its tender trust, its generous confidence,
Its wondering disdain of littleness,—
These, by the coarser sense of those around her
Uncomprehended, may not all be vain."
A jubilant party were assembled in Mrs. Leroy Edson's elegant parlors to witness the marriage ceremony of Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet.
Even Mrs. Salsify, as one of the groom's former acquaintances, received an invite to the bridal feast, and appeared in red morocco shoes and a cap whose ruffles were the astonishment of the entire assembly. Mary Madeline's squealing baby detained her at home, and perhaps, also, she did not care to see her former lover, recreant and unfaithful though he had been to her, take the solemn vow of eternal constancy to another.
The party was more lively than wedding parties usually are. Mrs. Edson was everywhere, gliding, like the spirit of grace and beauty, among her guests, enlivening them by her humor, and spreading a rich glow of geniality through the apartments. If she ever outshone herself, and surpassed her own surpassing powers, it was to-night. Col. Malcome's eyes followed her wherever she moved, with an undisguisable expression of admiration. He seemed rather cast in the shade by her unwonted brilliancy, and held himself aloof from her side for almost the entire evening.
Miss Martha Pinkerton noticed him sitting alone and abstracted on a sofa, and her kind soul was moved with pity for his companionless situation, so she resolved to cheer his solitude as well as she was able. Approaching, she assumed a seat on the opposite side of the sofa. She looked at him, hemmed, and coughed, but he did not seem to heed her proximity. At length she resolved to speak.
"Col. Malcome," she said, in her softest tone, "do you know you have never called to take away the shirts you left for me to make more than two years ago? I have often thought I would take them to you; but sister Stanhope said I had better wait, as you would call when you wanted them. I starched and ironed them all up nice for you; but I am sure the stiffening is all out, and they are as yellow as saffron by this time."
"Ay, Miss Pinkerton, you were very kind," answered he, bowing politely. "I had forgot my call on your services entirely. I recollect now that I contemplated a journey at that time, which circumstances prevented me from undertaking, and that occasioned my forgetfulness of the package probably. I will call soon and relieve you of it."
"O, 'tis no burden," she answered; "I only thought I would speak to you about it to let you know 'twas ready any time you might choose to call. Don't you think the bride looks very beautiful?" she added, turning the discourse to more elegant subjects now she had gained his ear.
"Ay, quite interesting and pretty," answered he, turning his attention for a moment toward the young couple who formed the centre of a mirthful group.
"Mrs. Edson seems to feel wonderful smart to-night," pursued Miss Martha; "pleased with her success in match-making, I suppose."
"Ah!" said the colonel, "does Mrs. Edson make matches? I wish she would form one for me."
The modest maiden blushed scarlet at these words, and remained silent. A group was just passing, and the colonel effected his escape from his fair companion and joined them. Several voices called for him at the piano, and, seating himself before the instrument, he commenced a brilliant performance. In a few moments he became conscious of the form of Louise standing in the embrasure of a window near by, her whole soul apparently absorbed in the music. When he arose she had disappeared. He sauntered slowly to the hall door, and stepped forth upon the piazza. As he paced slowly down its marble length he came suddenly upon her, leaning languidly against a vine-covered column.
"Why do you fly your guests?" asked he; "they will soon grow dim without your presence."
"Because I am weary and dispirited," answered Louise, "and want quiet and fresh air."
"Dispirited!" exclaimed he; "I have never seen you so startlingly brilliant as to-night."
She shook her bright head mournfully. The hilarious voices from the merry groups within came full upon their ears.
"Walk with me a few moments in the cool quiet of the garden," said he; "here the air comes heavy and tainted from the crowded apartments within."
She placed her arm passively in his, and they passed down the steps and entered the shady paths.
"I marvel to find you so moody and glum," he remarked, after they had proceeded some distance in perfect silence, "when you have been so unusually gay through the evening."
She made no answer.
"Let us return to the house," said he at length.
"What for?" she asked, turning her clear eyes quickly on his face.
"Because you do not enjoy your company," he answered.
"No, that is not the reason," said she; "'tis because you are weary of my presence."
"Weary of your presence!" repeated he. "Louise, you don't believe your own words. May I stay here at your side till I wish to go away?"
"Certainly," answered she.
"Then let me put my arm around you," said he, encircling her waist, "and lay your dear head here, and you are mine henceforth, for I shall never leave you."
For a moment her tearful face was hidden on his bosom.
A low wailing wind swept through the shrubbery that surrounded them, and one single word, thrilling and awful, as if it fell from the lips of an accusing spirit, smote on their ears—'Beware!'
Louise started from the arm that encircled her and fled toward the lighted mansion. The party were still occupied in the merry dance, and no one seemed to have marked her brief absence.
CHAPTER XXXII.