Back to the Mumbles, the Wimbles and Pimbles, and their clamorous voices again dinning in our ears. Will we ever be quit of them?
As cold weather approached, and the atmospheric thermometer descended to the freezing point, the philanthropic one mounted suddenly to blood heat.
Mrs. Pimble and Mrs. Lawson assumed their green legs and strode over Wimbledon with pompous, majestic tread. The Woman's Rights Reform shook off its sluggish torpor, and rose a mighty shape of masculine vigor, strength and power. As in atonement for past sloth and inertness, the reformists became more active in their several departments than ever before. Lectures were delivered, clubs formed, and committees appointed to visit the people from house to house, and stir them up by way of remembrance, to engage in the great benevolent enterprises of the day. At length an indignation meeting was announced to be held at the village church in Wimbledon. The house was thronged at an early hour, and great excitement pervaded the assembly, when the chairman and other officers appeared and ascended the platform, which had been erected for their convenience. It must be admitted that Dea. Allen, sitting in the glaring light of the uncurtained windows, contemplated with rather wrathful visage the ample green damask Bloomers, which adorned the lower limbs of the several officiating ladies; but he quite forgot his anger when the president sublimely arose, and, advancing to the front of the stand, said in a loud, commanding tone:
"We will now proceed with the business of this convention. If there is any person in the house that wishes to pray, she, or he, can do so. We hold to liberty and equal rights for all."
She then stood in silence several moments, gazing over the assembly with a self-possessed and confident air. But it appeared no person was moved with a spirit of prayer. So the lady president, after a preparatory hem, proceeded with the duties of her office. She, in a brief speech, explained the reason for holding this meeting, and the object it had in view.
"I have spoken in public before," said she; "often has my voice been raised against tyranny and oppression in all its forms; but never until to-day has it been my happy privilege to address so large an assembly of the inhabitants of my native village on the holy subjects of freedom and philanthropy. It inspires my soul with fresh courage to behold your eager faces, for they seem to say your minds are awakening to the demands of the down-trodden portions of your race. We hold this convention to arouse an interest in the cause of reform, which shall lead to strong and energetic action.
"It is too painfully true that Wimbledon is a sink of immorality, vice and pollution, where moral turpitude stalks with giant strides, and abominable barbarisms are practised under the glaring light of heaven. (Sensation.) The object of this meeting is to crush the oppressor's might, and raise his hapless victims to their proper position in society. I call upon the women of this assembly to rise from the depths of their degradation, rush boldly in the faces of their enslavers, and assert their rights; and, having asserted, maintain them, even at the point of the sword. (Sensation and murmurings.) A series of resolutions will now be presented for the consideration of the convention."
She turned to Mrs. Lawson, who sat majestically in a large arm-chair, her strong arms folded on her broad chest, and whispered a few words in her ear. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Salsify Mumbles rose, and said in a loud tone: "Gentlemen and ladies, I rise for the purpose"—— On hearing the sound of his voice, the lady president rushed to the edge of the platform, and glaring on the upright figure, which shook like an aspen beneath her fiery eyes, exclaimed, in thundering accents, "What are you standing there for, you booby-faced, blubber-chopped baboon in boots?"
"I wish to speak," stammered the terrified man. He could utter no more.
"Youspeak!" said the lofty president, in a tone of the most supreme contempt,—"sit down."
The poor creature dropped as quick as though he had received a cannon ball in his heart.
Mrs. Pimble retired, and Mrs. Secretary Lawson arose, adjusted her green spectacles, and, taking a roll of papers from the table, advanced to the front of the stand. Elevating her brows, she said:
"I will now read several resolutions which have been handed in since the opening of the meeting.
"First, Resolved, That the enfranchised women of Wimbledon use their combined efforts for the liberation of their suffering sisterhood, who yet groan beneath the despotic cruelties of the oppressor man."
The secretary sat down. The president arose. "Are there any remarks to be made on this resolution?" she said.
None were forthcoming.
"Then I move its adoption."
"I second the motion," squealed a little voice from some remote corner.
The secretary came forward. "All in favor of this resolution will please say, ay."
A score of voices were heard.
"It is unanimously accepted," said she. "I will now proceed to the reading of the second.
"Resolved, That, as a means of humbling and destroying the tyranny which the monster man exercises over the larger portion of the women of Wimbledon, six of the usurpers be converted into lamp-posts, and placed at the corners of the principal streets, with tin lanterns fixed upon their heads, to light the cause of philanthropy in its midnight struggles." (Sensation, and several brawny hands scratching uneasily at the apex of their craniums.)
The secretary sat down; the lady president arose. "This is a very spirited as well as elegant resolve," said she, "and cannot fail of securing universal approbation. Mrs. Secretary, you will please read the remaining portion, and then all can be adopted by one joint action of the house."
"There are but two brief ones to follow," said the secretary, again coming forward.
"First, Resolved, That the tortuous channel of Wimbledon river be made straight, and the tyrant man be compelled to perform the labor with three-inch augers and pap-spoons.
"Secondly, Resolved, That, the steeple of this church, which looms so boldly impious toward the sky, be felled to the ground, and be converted into a liberty-pole, with the cast-off petticoats of the enfranchised women of Wimbledon flaunting proudly from its summit, as an emblem of the downfall of man's bigotry and despotism, and the triumphant elevation of woman to her proper sphere among the rulers of the earth."
Great sensation as the lady secretary pronounced the foregoing resolves, with strong impressiveness of tone and manner. As she retired, Dea. Allen rose. The lady president sprang from her seat.
"Sit down!" shrieked she, bringing her foot to the platform with a violence that caused it to tremble. But the deacon did not drop at this sharp command, as Mr. Mumbles had done.
"I thought you held to liberty and equal rights," said he, with an air of some boldness.
"I do,—and therefore I tell you to sit down."
"I will speak," said he, returning the defiant looks cast upon him by both president and secretary; "for religion and right demand it. If you dare profane with your sacrilegious hands the holy steeple of this house of God, avenging justice will fall with crushing weight upon your guilty heads."
Having delivered himself of this dread prediction, the deacon sat down.
In her loftiest style, Mrs. Pimble moved the adoption of the resolutions, vouchsafing no word of comment on the impertinent interruption. A brawling, discordant shout of "Ay—ay—ay," in every possible variety of tones, from a swarm of boisterous boys and ranting rowdies, was declared a unanimous approval, and in a storm of hisses and hurrahs the indignation meeting triumphantly adjourned.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"Fare thee well! and if forever,Still forever, farethee well,Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not;Love may sink by slow decay,But by sudden wrench, believe not,Hearts can thus be torn away.Still thine own its life retaineth,Still must mine, though bleeding, beat,And the undying thought which paineth,Is, that we no more may meet."
"Fare thee well! and if forever,Still forever, farethee well,Even though unforgiving, never'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
"Fare thee well! and if forever,
Still forever, farethee well,
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not;Love may sink by slow decay,But by sudden wrench, believe not,Hearts can thus be torn away.Still thine own its life retaineth,Still must mine, though bleeding, beat,And the undying thought which paineth,Is, that we no more may meet."
Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not,
Hearts can thus be torn away.
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat,
And the undying thought which paineth,
Is, that we no more may meet."
Sudden death had entered the home of Louise Edson and made her a widow. Her husband died of cholera, in a distant city, whence he had gone for the purchase of goods, and was brought home a corpse. Louise reeled to earth beneath the sudden and unexpected blow. Her soul was lacerated by constant memory of the wrong she had done him, and it seemed to her aroused and trembling conscience that avenging Heaven had taken to itself the man she had so deeply injured, and left her to grope darkly on in her own wickedness and sin. True she had been cruelly disappointed, and through long years compelled to struggle on in all the bitter loneliness of feelings unreplied to, bound by indissoluble chains to one who had no tastes or sympathies in common with her. Death had freed her now, but, ah! too late. The taint of sin was on her soul. She had forgot her vows at the altar, debased herself and wronged her husband by listening to words of passion from another. O, far less bitter would have been her grief, as she stood weeping over his lifeless form, could she have laid her hand on the cold, damp brow and said, "I have loved thee ever, and through life's cares and perplexities stood closely at thy side to cheer and smooth thy pathway." But this she could not say. She only felt that the soul had gone to God, to learn her falsity and sin, and looked from the skies upon her with grief and avenging anger. Bitterly she thought of the man who had led her from the path of rectitude, and resolved to see him no more. As a self-inflicted penance, she immured herself within the walls of her own mansion, and determined to pass the remainder of her life in solitude. Many of her numerous friends sought admittance to express sympathy and condolence in her affliction, but she refused to see them and resisted all their overtures. Only one person gained entrance to her seclusion. That was Mrs. Stanhope, whose kind heart was deeply pained by the apparently incurable sorrow that had settled on the mind of her young friend, and strove, by every effort in her power, to lighten her woes and lead her to more hopeful views of the future.
"It grieves me," said she, "to see you, in the bloom of youth and health, immure yourself in a living tomb, and refuse the consolations you would receive from intercourse with your species."
"I want no more of the world," answered the sufferer; "it has no pleasure or enjoyment for me."
"But, my dear, you should not allow your feelings to overpower your better judgment," remonstrated Mrs. Stanhope.
"Ah, my feelings!" said Louise, bitterly, with tears rolling over her pale cheeks; "they have been my destruction. Had I always controlled them, I had not been the miserable creature I am to-day."
Mrs. Stanhope hardly understood this passionate outburst, but she still strove to soothe and comfort her afflicted friend.
"Your brow is hot and feverish," said she, rising to depart. "I caution you to calm yourself and take some rest, or severe sickness will prostrate you ere long."
"And why should I fear sickness or death," asked Louise, in a hopeless tone, "when the only calm for me is the calm of the grave, the only rest its dreamless slumbers?"
Mrs. Stanhope gazed on the suffering face with tearful pity, and turned away. On opening the hall door, she encountered Col. Malcome, pacing to and fro on the icy piazza. He started suddenly on beholding her, and asked if she came from Mrs. Edson. Mrs. Stanhope answered affirmatively.
"And how have you left her?" inquired he, with an expression of strong anxiety and emotion on his features.
"She seems deeply afflicted," returned Mrs. Stanhope.
"Does she still persist in refusing to see her friends?" asked he.
"She is thus disposed, I regret to say," was Mrs. Stanhope's reply.
"Would you do me the favor to return, and entreat her to grant me a few moments in her presence?" inquired he, in an earnest tone.
"I will perform your request with pleasure," she said; "but I fear I shall bring you naught but a gloomy refusal." Thus saying, she reëntered the apartment of Louise.
"I am come with a petition, Mrs. Edson," she remarked, approaching her side, and laying a hand softly on the bowed head. "Will you grant it your favor?"
"I must hear it first," said Louise.
"Col. Malcome is walking on the piazza; he wishes to see you."
"Go and tell him, in another and a darker world I'll see him; never again in this," answered Louise, starting to her feet, her whole frame trembling with excitement and anger.
Mrs. Stanhope was astonished and alarmed at her appearance, and stood gazing on her in wondering silence. At length she said, "I cannot take a message like that to him; he would think it the wild raving of a lunatic."
"Tell him, then, to go away, and never approach these doors again," said Louise, suddenly bursting into tears. Mrs. Stanhope lingered in surprise at her friend's emotion, and strove to soothe it.
"Go," said Louise; "I command you to go, and send him away. I shall die if I hear another of his footfalls on the piazza."
Alarmed by the dreadful energy of her manner, Mrs. Stanhope hurried away. The colonel came eagerly to her side, as she stepped forth.
"Does she refuse me?" he asked.
"She does," said Mrs. Stanhope.
"And does she give no encouragement that I may gain admittance at some future time?"
"None."
"Then carry this to her," said he, placing a small, folded letter in Mrs. Stanhope's hand, and turning dejectedly away.
Again she entered the mansion. Louise sat with head bowed between her hands, and did not raise her eyes. Mrs. Stanhope laid the missive on the table beside her, and silently left the apartment.
Twilight deepened into evening, and still the suffering woman sat there, in mute, unutterable agony. A servant entering with lights at length aroused her to consciousness, and her eye fell on the folded letter lying on the stand. Hastily tearing away the envelope, she dropped on her knees, and ran over its contents with devouring eagerness, while her features worked with strong, conflicting emotions, and tears rolled continually from her beautiful eyes and blistered the written page. "Why do you drive me from you?" it began. "If, in an unguarded moment, under the intoxicating influences which your bewitching presence, the quiet seclusion of the spot, and romantic hush and stillness of the hour threw around me, all combining to lap my soul in delicious forgetfulness of everything beyond the momentary bliss of having you at my side, I suffered words to escape my lips, which should have remained concealed in my own bosom, you might at least let the deep, overpowering love which forced their utterance, plead as some extenuation for my presumption and error. But it seems you have cast me from you forever—unpitied—unforgiven. O, Louise! I did not think you so implacable. The sin is mine, and I would come on bended knee to implore pardon for the suffering and sorrow my rashness has brought to your innocent heart; but you fly from my approach, and banish me from your presence. No mercy for one, who, though he may have erred, is surely atoning for his errors by anguish as deep, as poignant as your own. Night after night I walk the piazza beneath your windows. I know you hear my step and feel that I am near. But you will not open the casement and let me for a moment behold your features and crave your forgiveness. O, Louise, am I to die without a pitying word or look from you?
"I sit by my Edith's bed-side through long, weary midnight hours, and she wakes from her fitful slumbers and asks for you. 'Why does she never come to see me now? There's no arm raises me so lightly, no hand bathes my brow so gently, as hers. Will you not bring her, father?'
"O, what agony these words inflict! I have to feel my own rashness and folly have deprived my sick child of a tender nurse. Louise, do you not remember one dear, bright morning, long ago, when I was sitting at the piano in that pleasant parlor I'm forbidden to enter now, and you stood beside me in all your bewildering grace and beauty, that I sought from you a promise which was given? Still, still would I conjure you, as Steerforth said to David,think of me at my best. You will need to do it soon; for your contempt and scorn are hurrying me on to deeds of crime and wickedness. O, will you drive me to the wretch's doom, or win me to a life of happiness and virtue? It is yours to decide."
Such were the contents of the letter which remained clenched in the grasp of the agitated woman through the long hours of that woe-fraught night. When the first gray tints of dawn were visible, she started and hid it away in her bosom. Grasping a pen she traced a few lines with trembling hand, and placed them in an envelope directed to Mrs. Stanhope. Then unclosing her wardrobe, she selected a few articles of clothing, made them into a small bundle, and wrapping a heavy shawl round her slender form, and concealing her features in a large black bonnet with a long, thick veil, she opened softly the hall door, and stole forth into the cold, biting air, walking hurriedly over the frosty paths till she had gained the lonesome country road beyond the village.
As Mrs. Stanhope was sitting down to breakfast, a knock called her to the door, where she beheld Mrs. Edson's servant, who presented her with a letter, and said her mistress had gone away very suddenly, and she would like to know if she had left any word as to when she would return.
Mrs. Stanhope broke the seal, and read with surprise and astonishment depicted on her features. The girl stood waiting to learn its contents.
"I think," said Mrs. Stanhope, suddenly recollecting herself, "that your mistress will be absent some time. She informs me she has gone on a visit to the aunt with whom she resided previous to her marriage."
"Where does her aunt live?" asked the girl.
"I do not know," returned Mrs. Stanhope, "but I think at a considerable distance from this place."
The girl retired, and Mrs. Stanhope reëntered the breakfast room.
"Who was in the porch?" inquired Miss Pinkerton, as her sister assumed her place by the coffee urn.
"Mrs. Edson's servant," returned she, arranging the cups with an absent air.
"What did she want?" asked Miss Martha, opening her muffin and dropping a piece of golden butter on its smoking surface.
"She brought me a note from her mistress," said Mrs. Stanhope, "who has departed suddenly on a visit to her aunt, and wishes me to superintend the care of her mansion for a time."
"I guess she is coming out of her dumps," said Martha. "I always said there was no danger of her dying of grief for the loss of a husband. She'll come home one of these days a gay widow, and set her cap for Col. Malcome. I always thought she had a liking for him."
Mrs. Stanhope made no reply to this unfeeling speech. After breakfast the colonel chanced in to take the long-forgotten package away, when he learned of Louise's sudden departure, and went home in a state of increased anguish and despair.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"To the old forest homeI hie me again;But I bring not the gladnessMy spirit knew whenI roamed in my childhoodIts wide-spreading bounds;For sorrows have pierced me,My soul wears the wounds."
"To the old forest homeI hie me again;But I bring not the gladnessMy spirit knew whenI roamed in my childhoodIts wide-spreading bounds;For sorrows have pierced me,My soul wears the wounds."
"To the old forest home
I hie me again;
But I bring not the gladness
My spirit knew when
I roamed in my childhood
Its wide-spreading bounds;
For sorrows have pierced me,
My soul wears the wounds."
The Hermit of the Cedars sat in his antique room alone, by a peat-wood fire. He appeared wrapt in moody thought and contemplation, though ever and anon, as the wintry blast gave a wilder sweep over the swaying roof above him, he turned and glanced uneasily toward the door, as though he wished and waited the appearance of some form over its threshold. But the hours passed on, and no one came to cheer his loneliness. So, heaping the ashes over the glowing embers, he betook himself to his lowly couch, but his head had hardly touched the pillow when a quick step crackling along the icy path struck his ear. Ere he could reach the door it was pushed open, and a voice called out hastily, "Uncle Ralph!"
"Edgar, my boy!" exclaimed the hermit, groping in the darkness to clasp him in his arms. "Are you returned at last?"
"Yes, dear uncle," answered the young man; "I reached the village by the evening stage, and hurried with all speed to my old forest home."
The hermit lighted a candle and raked open the coals. A bright fire soon burned on the hearth, and by its ruddy blaze the fond uncle marked the changes two years had wrought in the appearance of his nephew. He was taller, and a manly confidence of tone and manner had succeeded the reserve and timidity which characterized his boyhood. The luxuriant masses of soft brown hair were brushed away from the clear, pale brow, and the deep blue eyes glowed in the conscious light of genius and intellectual fervor. The hermit gazed with ardent admiration on the commanding elegance and beauty of the form before him.
"Education and travel have made a wonderful improvement in your appearance, my boy," he remarked at length, his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke. "Still I don't know but I liked you better as the curly-headed boy in morocco cap and little blue frock-coat, that used to come bounding over the forest path, with his satchel in hand; or set here of long winter evenings, reading some treasured volume at my side; or perched within the window nook gazing silently upward at the glistening stars;—for the dreamy boy I could keep near me, but the lofty, ambitious man I cannot hope to prison here in a solitary wilderness,—nor should I indulge in a wish so selfish," he added. "Tell me, Edgar, of your travels, your enjoyments and occupations, since you departed from this lowly roof."
The young man gave a brief rehearsal of the principal events of the past two years. He hesitated somewhat when he came to his meeting and renewal of acquaintance with Florence Howard, recollecting his uncle's former aversion to their intercourse. He might have passed over it in silence, but his delicate sense of honor would not allow him to deceive in the smallest point the heart that loved him so devotedly. The listening man bent earnest, scrutinizing glances on the speaker's face as he proceeded with his tale, and when it was finished, bowed his gray head on his thin hands, as was his wont when engaged in deep thought, and remained silent.
At length a tremendous blast swept through the forest, blew open the door, and scattered the coals from the deep fire-place over the floor of the apartment. The moody man started from his reverie. Edgar secured the door, and, taking a broom composed of small sprigs of hemlock and cedar, brushed the scattered embers into a pile.
"Do you not wish to retire?" asked the hermit, as the young man resumed his seat in the corner.
"As you wish, uncle," returned he; "I do not feel much fatigued."
"Ay, but I think you are so," said the kind-hearted man, regarding attentively his nephew's features. "My joy at beholding you has rendered me forgetful of your physical comforts. Let me get you some refreshment, and then you shall lie down and rest your weary limbs."
The hermit took a small brown earthen jug from a rude shelf over the fire-place, and, pouring a portion of its contents into a bright-faced pewter basin, placed it on a heap of glowing coals. Then going to a cupboard he brought forth a large wooden bowl, filled with a coarse, white substance. When the contents of the basin were warm he placed it on the table, and setting a chair, said, "Come, my boy, and partake of this simple food. 'Tis all I have to offer you; not like the dainty repasts at which you are accustomed to sit in the abodes of wealth and fashion."
Edgar approached and took the proffered seat.
"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl to his basin.
"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy, Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.
"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."
A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew, with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.
"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was lonely without him."
Edgar rose from his simple repast.
"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear you will rest but ill on my hard couch."
"My slumbers will be sweet as though I reposed on eider down," returned he, "if you will but assure me that my coming or words have not marred your quiet and composure."
"My boy," said the hermit, gazing on him anxiously, "what do you mean? How should the arrival of one I have so longed to behold give aught but joy to my lonely soul?"
"I may have spoken words that grieved you," said the young man, sorrowfully; "but I could not bear to conceal the truth from you, dear uncle;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.
"Edgar," returned the hermit, with emotion, "I am grateful for your confidence, and though I could have wished your heart's affections bestowed on some other woman, I will no longer oppose your inclinations. Marry Florence Howard if you choose."
"Marry her!" exclaimed Edgar, suddenly breaking in upon his uncle's discourse. "She is engaged to another."
"What is his name?" asked the hermit.
"Rufus Malcome," returned the young man.
"What! a brother to the girl I saw with you on the river bank?" inquired the recluse, with a sudden excitement of manner.
"Yes," said Edgar; "the brother of Edith Malcome."
"O, the mysterious workings of fate!" exclaimed the hermit, falling again into a ruminating silence, which Edgar did not deem it wise to disturb.
So they laid down on the lowly couch, and the young man, fatigued with his journeyings, drew the coverings over his head to exclude the shrill shriekings of the sweeping blasts, and soon rested quietly in the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.
Sleep! angel ministrant to the grief-stricken soul. How many that walk this verdant earth would fain lie locked in her slumberous arms forever!
CHAPTER XL.
"No voice hath breathed upon mine earThy name since last we met;No sound disturbed the silence drear,Where sleep entombed from year to year,Thy memory, my regret."
"No voice hath breathed upon mine earThy name since last we met;No sound disturbed the silence drear,Where sleep entombed from year to year,Thy memory, my regret."
"No voice hath breathed upon mine ear
Thy name since last we met;
No sound disturbed the silence drear,
Where sleep entombed from year to year,
Thy memory, my regret."
In her own elegantly appointed apartment sat Florence Howard, with her journal open upon the table.
"Beneath the old roof-tree of home once more," she wrote, "to find my mother's pale face yet paler than when I left her, and a sudden tremor and nervousness betrayed on the slightest unusual sound, which is exceeding painful to witness.
"Hannah's penchant for me seems to have decreased somewhat, since father waited on Col. Malcome and asked his consent to the delay of my proposed nuptials with Rufus, till some change should occur in mother's health. Dr. Potipher thinks she will hardly survive the trying weather of the approaching spring.
"Poor, dear mother! what shall I do without her? But I may not linger long behind.
"I used to think I was very miserable, when I pined in ignorance of Edgar's love, and grew jealous of his attentions to gentle Edith Malcome; but what were those petty griefs, compared with the agony of having known the sweet possession of his heart, and lost it,—lost it, too, through my own selfish folly and weakness? Truly, there's naught so bitter as self-reproach. Heaven only knows what I have suffered since that dreadful night, when I fled from his angry, reproachful looks, and locked myself in the solitude of my chamber. And that freezing, distant recognition on the following morning! O, what a shuddering horror will ever creep over me with the memory of Franconia Notch! And Mount Washington,—which was for aye to tower above all other scenes of grandeur earth's broadest extent could afford,—a thought of it unnerves my soul with grief. What short-sighted mortals are we!
"I think my father suspects my secret and reproaches himself for giving me so free access to Edgar's company. I would not wonder if the delay he has urged to my marriage were influenced as much by this sad knowledge as my mother's failing health. Col. Malcome gave a reluctant assent, at which I am surprised. When his sweet daughter is sinking slowly into the grave, 'tis strange he can think of any earthly interest.
"I have looked mournfully toward the cedar forest to-night, and thought of the poor lone hermit in his humble hut, and wished, O, how fervently wished! that I, like him, had a habitation afar from the world's hollow throngs, where I could sit and brood in solitude over my broken heart!
"Am I not a living, breathing, suffering example of the truth of Byron's eloquent words?
'The day drags on, though storms keep out the sun,And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.'"
'The day drags on, though storms keep out the sun,And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.'"
'The day drags on, though storms keep out the sun,
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.'"
Florence closed her journal, and approached the window.
As she was dropping the curtain to retire, a dark figure moving stealthily under the leafless branches of the lindens, which stood in rows on the least public side of the house, arrested her attention. The remembrance of a similar appearance she had once seen crossed her mind, and no ill having followed that, she dismissed her fears, and ere long sank to rest.
When the village clock pealed forth the hour of midnight, the dark figure she had observed, stood on the terrace below. The hall door swung noiselessly on its hinges, and Hannah Doliver stepped forth. "Here are the matches and kindling-wood," said she in a whisper, approaching the dusky form, and holding a small basket forward.
"Are they all asleep?" asked a hushed voice.
"Yes," answered she.
"See that you give the alarm in season," returned the muffled figure, as he took the basket from the woman's hand, and passed softly down the steps of the piazza.
Silently the destroying fires were lighted. But the midnight incendiary would have proceeded less deliberately with his work of destruction, had he marked the tall, lank figure in a long, dark overcoat, and slouching-brimmed hat, which slowly dogged closely his every footstep. Suddenly a bright flash leaped up from the fragments the wicked man sought to enkindle, and revealed his garb and features. A mingled expression of hatred and revenge glared from the sunken eyes of his follower, who stood in the shadow of a linden near by, as the pale, handsome features and light, curling locks of the incendiary met his gaze.
"Villain!" exclaimed he, springing forward, as the man turned with a hurried step from his work of destruction; "would you burn innocent people in their beds?"
With one fell blow the man dashed the lank form to the earth, and fled down the avenue of cedars, which led to the river, never heeding the startled looks of a thin woman, and tall, graceful youth, against whose sides he brushed in his guilty flight.
"Who could that flying figure have been?" asked the lad of the woman, when the man had rushed past.
"I don't know, indeed, Willie," answered she, "unless it was your friend, the hermit, gone wild. You say he has been more gloomy than usual for several days."
"O, no!" returned the youth; "it was not the hermit. I distinguished this man's features very plainly as he passed, and it was no one I ever saw before. He had no covering on his head, and his hair was light and curly. His face seemed glowing with rage and anger."
"It must have been some lunatic escaped from the asylum," said the woman.
"Well, I think you are right, mother," answered the boy. "I hope he has not harmed the poor hermit, whom I left sitting on a stone among the cedars, near Major Howard's mansion. He came thus far with me to-night, as it was so late, and the way long and gloomy."
"Ah! he was very kind," remarked the woman. "I began to fear you were not coming for me, Willie, and thought I should have to remain at Mr. Pimble's all night, or go home alone. Is the hermit's nephew still with him?"
"No, he went away this morning, and the poor old man is very lonely and sad. He said he wished I could be with him all the time."
"Strange being!" said the woman. "Why does he not leave the forest, and dwell among his fellow-men?"
"I think it is because he experienced some disappointment in his youth," answered the lad, "and has come to distrust all his species."
"It may be so," returned the woman. "I have heard of such instances. He is very kind to you, my boy, and but for his little bundles of sticks, I think we must have perished during your long illness through that piercing cold winter. Strange are the realities of life; stranger than fiction! When the rich Mr. Pimble drove me from his threshold, the poor hermit of the forest braved the bleak storms, and laid the charitable piles on my poverty-stricken threshold."
The mother and son had now reached their humble abode.
"Willie," said she, "I wish you would run down by the river and gather up the few pieces of linen I washed and spread out there yesterday. The wind is rising fast, and they will blow away before morning."
The boy hastened to perform her request, and in a few moments came rushing into the house, and exclaimed:
"Mother! mother! Major Howard's house is all on fire! I am going up there," and, flinging the pieces he held in his arms on the table, he flew off toward the burning mansion.
Mrs. Danforth followed him to the door and discovered his words were but too true. Long tongues of flame darted upward to the sky, and ran fiercely over the walls and terraces of the mansion. The church bell was pealing madly to rouse the slumbering people to the rescue; but the fire gained so rapidly in the sweeping wind, all efforts to quench it could not prove otherwise than futile. To save the lives of the inmates would be the utmost which could be done, and even this seemed a perilous undertaking.
Willie Danforth was rushing up the avenue of cedars, when, just as he was entering the grounds of the burning mansion, he stumbled over some large object which obstructed the path. It moved beneath, and, by the glare of the flames, he discovered the body of his friend, the hermit, lying at full length upon the frozen ground. The prostrate man opened his eyes and recognized Willie.
"O, my good boy, I am sadly hurt!" said he, feebly. "Will you help me to rise and get away from this place?"
Willie, who forgot everything, even the burning mansion before him, in care and pity for his friend, raised him to his feet, and half supporting the tall, thin form in his young, strong arms, drew him down the long avenue and along the river bank to his mother's dwelling.
And that night the insensible form of the Hermit of the Cedars lay stretched upon the low couch of Dilly Danforth's humble abode.
CHAPTER XLI.
"There are so many signs of wickednessAround me, that my soul is pressed with fear.O, that the power divine would kindly aidMe in my need, and save me from the wilesAnd artful plottings of this wicked man!For though he speaks so soft, and smiles so fair,I've seen at times a strange look in his eyeWhich doth convince me that his soul is black within."
"There are so many signs of wickednessAround me, that my soul is pressed with fear.O, that the power divine would kindly aidMe in my need, and save me from the wilesAnd artful plottings of this wicked man!For though he speaks so soft, and smiles so fair,I've seen at times a strange look in his eyeWhich doth convince me that his soul is black within."
"There are so many signs of wickedness
Around me, that my soul is pressed with fear.
O, that the power divine would kindly aid
Me in my need, and save me from the wiles
And artful plottings of this wicked man!
For though he speaks so soft, and smiles so fair,
I've seen at times a strange look in his eye
Which doth convince me that his soul is black within."
Col. Malcome flung wide the doors of his elegant mansion to receive the suffering family who, in the space of a few short hours, had lost their all of earthly wealth by the subtle element of fire. The invalided Mrs. Howard was borne on a litter to an apartment so warm and complete in its arrangements, as to almost wear the appearance of having been fitted up expressly to receive her in her forlorn and unsheltered condition. Large, richly-furnished rooms, all glowing bright in their luxurious comforts, were also in readiness for Florence and her father. The latter was nearly overwhelmed with grief and dismay at his sudden and irremediable loss. Col. Malcome strove by every means in his power to assuage and lighten his sorrows.
"My house is your home as long as you choose to make it so, Major Howard," said he one morning after the afflicted family had been several weeks partakers of his generous hospitality.
"I cannot consent to burden you with my family any longer than while I can find some place to which I can remove them," answered he. "And then I must engage in some kind of business to provide for their support. This unfortunate accident has given my wife so dreadful a shock, I fear she will not long survive it."
A significant smile appeared for a moment on Col. Malcome's features at these latter words, but he concealed it from the distressed man, and replied, "It grieves me to hear you talk thus. Why should you regard your family as burdensome guests beneath my roof, when we are soon to be linked in the ties of relationship by the union of our children?"
"True!" returned Major Howard. "Such a union has been proposed, but——"
"But what?" asked Col. M.
"You may not look as favorably on its consummation now as formerly."
"Judge not so meanly of me, my friend!" said he, warmly. "Your daughter's rich soul and personal charms are all the wealth I desire in the lady who shall become the wife of my son."
Major Howard was silent.
"I do not wish to hasten this marriage," resumed the colonel, "because you expressed a desire, several months ago, that it should be delayed till a change occurred in your wife's situation (a strange emphasis on the wordwife); but were it consummated, your family could occupy one-half of my mansion with no expense to me till Rufus should rebuild the one you have recently lost by fire."
Major Howard's face suddenly brightened. The colonel saw he had made a hit, and followed up his advantage so adroitly that e'er the twain parted, the father had consented that the marriage between his daughter and the colonel's son should take place within four weeks. He sought his daughter and communicated the intelligence. Florence received it in silence. She felt they were without a home in the wide world, and at the mercy of the man under whose roof they were sheltered. A strange horror was seizing upon her soul and bowing her spirits to the earth. There were many looks and glances around her she could not understand; but they seemed possessed of some dark and hidden meaning. Hannah Doliver's glee knew no bounds. She followed Rufus from morning till night, and appeared uneasy if he was a moment beyond her sight. The young man returned her fondness with hatred and contempt. Edith, with her pale, wan face and sunken eyes, looked the mere shadow of her former self. During her long illness, her beautiful head had been shorn of its ripply wealth of auburn curls, and, as she lay languidly on the soft cushions of her luxuriant couch, few would have recognized in that wasted form the once radiant Edith Malcome. She had a feverishness and uncertainty of temper common to long-confined invalids. Florence could find little companionship in her society; besides, she was too weak to endure the excitement of laughter and conversation.
Rufus sought his affianced bride at every opportunity; and the only place where she could rest secure from his interruptions was the apartment of her mother, where he never ventured to intrude, being possessed of a strange fear and dread of sick people. He never visited Edith, unless compelled to do so by his father.
Florence was one day sitting in the deep recess of one of the drawing-room windows, with the massy folds of purple damask drooped before her, occupied in the perusal of a book of poems, when a succession of low, murmuring sounds near by, disturbed her, and listening a moment she heard Col. Malcome say, in a smothered tone, "There's no fear of detection; all moves on bravely, and we shall have a blooming young bride here in a few weeks."
Then there was a low, chuckling laugh, which Florence recognized as Hannah Doliver's. After a while the woman spoke in a stifled voice, "Don't you want to seeher?" she said. "I should think you would." There was a slight malice in her tone, which appeared to irritate him somewhat.
"I can wait very well till the ceremony is performed," he answered at length. "Of course, she will appear at the marriage of her daughter." A strange emphasis on the last word.
"But come," he added directly, "we must not linger here. Some of the family may observe us."
Thus speaking, they passed out of the apartment, relieving Florence of the fear with which she had been shaking during their whole conversation lest they should discover her retreat in the window.
When they were gone, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed in a low, but fervent tone, "Will no arm save me from the power into which I have fallen?"
For several days she sought an opportunity to speak privately with her father, but his attention was so incessantly occupied by Col. Malcome, that none presented.
When at last she gained his ear, he laughed her suspicions to scorn, and bade her never come to him with such an idle tale again.
The good-natured major was infatuated by, what he termed, the munificent magnanimity of Col. Malcome, and, moreover, had been nurtured in luxurious tastes, and the prospect of reïnstating himself in an elegant home by so easy a process as the marriage of his daughter, was too desirable to be allowed to vanish lightly away.
CHAPTER XLII.
"And they dare blame her! they whose every thoughtLook, utterance, act, hath more of evil in 'tThan e'er she dreamed of or could understand,And she must blush before them, with a heartWhose lightest throb is worth their all of life!"
"And they dare blame her! they whose every thoughtLook, utterance, act, hath more of evil in 'tThan e'er she dreamed of or could understand,And she must blush before them, with a heartWhose lightest throb is worth their all of life!"
"And they dare blame her! they whose every thought
Look, utterance, act, hath more of evil in 't
Than e'er she dreamed of or could understand,
And she must blush before them, with a heart
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!"