'And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood and heart and brain,I would give, to call the affluence of that moment back again,Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,Ay, an hundred sheaves of sceptres, ay, a planet's gathered crowns,'
'And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood and heart and brain,I would give, to call the affluence of that moment back again,Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,Ay, an hundred sheaves of sceptres, ay, a planet's gathered crowns,'
'And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood and heart and brain,
I would give, to call the affluence of that moment back again,
Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,
Ay, an hundred sheaves of sceptres, ay, a planet's gathered crowns,'
"But I must not write thus, lest I grow ungrateful for the mercies of a gracious Providence. Let me thank my God for his remembrance in the hour of sorest need, and lie down to slumber."
She closed her book, and, dropping softly on her knees before the low curtained couch, leaned her young head, with its dark, clustering curls, against the white cushions, and remained several moments in silent prayer. Then rising, she closed the casements and retired to rest.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
A graceful form bent over a printed page, and by the light of a waxen taper, devoured its startling contents. Ah, how awfully startling to the reader! for it was Louise Edson poreing over the disclosures of Col. Malcome's wickedness and crime. But, as she drew toward the close, a sudden ray of light struggled through the anguish and misery which had cast her features into utter darkness, when her eye first lighted on the glaring capitals of the criminal's name. Concealing the paper which contained the fearful tale of his guilt, she hastened to her own apartment.
As the shades of the following evening drew on, a female figure, wrapped in a large shawl, with her features closely veiled, stood at the iron door of the huge, black jail, and besought an entrance.
"Who do you wish to see?" demanded the jailer, in a coarse, rough tone, seeking to penetrate the veil with his impertinent eyes.
She breathed a low word in his ear. The man started.
"Is it possible you wish to behold a wretch like him?" exclaimed he.
The lady drew up her slight form with an air of dignity, and said, "Deliver my message, and bring me his answer!"
Awed by her manner, the jailer hastened his steps to obey her command.
The door of a gloomy cell on the second floor of the huge building opened with a harsh, grating sound, and the man stepped in and secured the door behind him. The prisoner, who was sitting beside a table, with pen and paper before him, turned round and fixed his eyes upon the intruder. "What do you want?" asked he. "When you use double bolts and bars to secure me, is it necessary to come every hour to see if I have not escaped?"
"I have not come to satisfy myself of your safety," returned the jailer, scowling on the speaker. "There's a woman at the outer door who wants to know if you will grant her a brief interview."
The prisoner started abruptly at these words. "What is her name?" demanded he, quickly.
"I do not know," answered the man. "She did not tell me; but she seemed mighty impatient for an answer to her request."
The prisoner bowed his head and sat in silence several moments. At length he said, "Bring her in! I have a curiosity to know what woman would penetrate these walls to seek an interview with me."
The jailer disappeared. In a few moments footsteps were heard along the dark passage, a female form was ushered into the cheerless apartment, and the lock turned harshly upon her. Then a white hand was laid lightly on the bright curling locks of the bowed head, and a low voice whispered in the ear of the incarcerated man, "It is a pitiful heart that forgets a friend in adversity."
"Louise!" said the prisoner, shrinking away with evident pain from her touch. "Why are you here?"
"To cheer you,—to comfort you," said she, earnestly regarding his pale, handsome features.
But he turned away from her gaze, shaking his head mournfully. "This is the deepest humiliation I have yet endured," he said, while a creeping shudder convulsed his frame. "To feel those clear eyes fastened upon me, piercing through and through my soul, and reading all the guilt and crime that's written there. O, Louise! was it not enough to drive me, by your unrelenting scorn and bitterness, to commit the act which has brought me here, without seeking to torment your victim by penetrating his dungeon to mock at the misfortune your own cruelty occasioned?"
He raised his pale, distressed face imploringly to hers as he ceased to speak; but she started back from her position at his side, and with an angry accent said, "I do not understand how any fell influence of mine should cause you to break the heart of an innocent woman by your guilty conduct with another."
"I did not seek to refer the blame of those early sins to any influence of yours," he answered. "How could I, when they were committed before your birth? In the very dust I acknowledge those deeds of villany and vileness. But too late is my grief and repentance. The blow has fallen, and my doom is fixed."
He leaned his arms forward upon the table, and, sinking his head upon them, uttered a low groan of hopeless, despairing misery.
Tears sprang to Louise's eyes, and, approaching, she dropped on her knees at his side, and laid her hand on his arm, "Do you remember a promise I gave you long ago?" she asked softly. "If I have seemed forgetful, let me renew it now."
He still retained his attitude of dejection, and seemed regardless of her pleading tones.
"You will not hear me," she said at length, in a voice broken with grief, "when I kneel at your feet and ask your pardon."
"Youkneel tome!" said he, suddenly grasping her arm and striving to raise her from the humble position. "Rise, I entreat, if you would not drive me mad!"
She stood before him, with tears falling fast from her beautiful eyes. "Who is the cruel one now?" she asked. "Who throws me aside and refuses forgiveness when it is repentantly implored?"
"What signifies the pardon of a wretch like me?" said he, in a tone of agony. "What is he? what can he be to you?"
Turning her head aside, she said in a soft, trembling voice, "He is what he has ever been, and still may be,—my world of love and happiness!" Her cheeks flushed, as, lifting her eyes, she encountered his earnest gaze. She sought to move away, but he was by her side. "Louise! Louise!" said he, in a tone of thrilling emotion, "Dare I hope that you love me still?"
There was no word; but she put her arm round his neck and sank weeping on his bosom. He pressed her again and again to his heart. "Ah, indeed!" said he, at length, "this is the luxury of woe. To know at last this love is mine, and be separated forever from its dear embraces by the cold walls of a prison. Stern justice can inflict no pang like this."
"Talk not of separation," said she, lifting her head, and revealing a face redolent with happiness. "No hand shall take me from you save the hand of death!"
He gazed with unspeakable tenderness on her glowing features, and said sorrowfully, "My wickedness does not deserve this angel-comforter. Why did you withhold this blessed consolation when the world smiled brightly on me?"
"To bestow it when the world had cast you off," said she; "to think of you at your best, when it had made your name a by-word and reproach."
He pressed his lips tenderly to the white, upturned brow, and drew her to a seat. A half-hour passed in low, earnest conversation, when the grating of the iron key aroused them, and Louise had only time to draw her veil over her features when the jailer entered. "I am ready to follow you," she said, advancing toward him.
He held the heavy door asunder, and, with one lingering glance on the form of the prisoner, she went forth and followed her guide through the dark passages, and down the steep flights of stairs. He unlocked the street-door, and she stepped lightly forth beneath the light of the stars.
CHAPTER XLIX.
"They loved;—and were beloved. O happiness.I have said all that can be said of blissIn saying that they loved. The young heart hasSuch store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,And it is love that works the mind, and bringsIts treasure to the light. I did love once,Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though nowMy heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wearThe falsest of false things—a mask of smiles;Yet every pulse throbs at the memoryOf that which has been."
"They loved;—and were beloved. O happiness.I have said all that can be said of blissIn saying that they loved. The young heart hasSuch store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,And it is love that works the mind, and bringsIts treasure to the light. I did love once,Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though nowMy heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wearThe falsest of false things—a mask of smiles;Yet every pulse throbs at the memoryOf that which has been."
"They loved;—and were beloved. O happiness.
I have said all that can be said of bliss
In saying that they loved. The young heart has
Such store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,
And it is love that works the mind, and brings
Its treasure to the light. I did love once,
Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though now
My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear
The falsest of false things—a mask of smiles;
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory
Of that which has been."
Summer showered her wealth of roses over the gardens and grassy paths of Wimbledon. Day after day the sound of the busy hammer rang out on the scented air, and crowds of workmen were seen at eventide hurrying to their separate places of abode. Great teams, loaded with fancy and ornamental wood and iron work, labored through the streets, and "Summer Home" was rising from its ruins in all its former magnificence and splendor.
Major Howard decided he could not use the confiscated wealth of the pretended Col. Malcome for a better purpose than to rebuild the mansion his wickedness had destroyed.
Florence was delighted at the prospect of regaining the beautiful home she had lost; for, elegant and luxurious as was her present abode, she was disquieted by too frequent remembrance of the terrible scenes she had witnessed beneath its roof. Still, the Howards were for the most part very happy. Edith's bright head was again covered with its golden wealth of curls, and her merry laughter echoed joyously through the halls and parlors of the proud mansion. It seemed her greatest delight to bring a smile to the wan cheek of her mother, who was failing slowly, even beneath the genial influence of a summer sun.
As Florence stood on the vine-curtained terrace one balmy August morning, inhaling the sweet air, and listening to the thrilling warblings of Edith's pet canaries, as they swung in their wire-wrought cages from the roof above, she beheld Willie Danforth coming up the garden path, holding a letter toward her in his cunning, tempting way. She extended her hand to receive it.
"No," said he, suddenly drawing it back. "I don't think I'll let you have this tiny little missive, unless you will first promise to tell me who is the writer."
"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager, impatient aspect.
His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked favorites of hers.
At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and hurried through the contents.
"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile; "for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we stand on now?"
The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,
"That do I, and her brother Neddie."
"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"
"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their acquaintance, Florence?"
"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a solitary hermit. So she would believe you were dead."
"And did that belief appear to cause her any regret?" asked William, who had been listening with an earnest expression to Florence's words.
"Yes, indeed," returned she; "the pretty, gentle girl has a strong regard for you, Willie. You must renew acquaintance when she and her brother come to pay me their long-meditated visit."
"I don't know," said the young man, rather sadly.
"I believe you will be a second Hermit of the Cedars, or the Hemlocks, or the Pines," said she, laughing; "for you are already half as melancholy as your uncle, at times."
"Do you consider him so very gloomy, then?" asked Willie.
"He has the most mournful expression I ever saw," answered Florence; "but he is an entertaining companion for all that. I always sit apart, and listen in silence, when he relates some tale or adventure of his extensive travels. He was with us yesterday evening, and I never saw him so animated and lively before. Even Aunt Mary's pale, grief-worn countenance assumed a cheerful expression while listening to his sprightly, intelligent conversation."
"Did you not know the cause of his unusual exhilaration?" inquired William.
"No," said Florence, looking innocently in the face of the questioner.
"Edgar is at home."
"Why did he not inform us of his nephew's return?" asked Florence, growing suddenly very pale, and finding it convenient to lean against a pillar near by.
"Perhaps he did not think the intelligence would interest your family," returned Willie; "he is very modest in his confidences."
The seminary bell now commenced to ring, and the youth hastened away with a pleasant good-morning.
Florence stood there a long time, behind the thickly-interwoven woodbines and honeysuckles, supporting herself against the marble column, forgetful of all save the blissful thought that the man she loved was once more near her. He was, indeed, nearer than she supposed, for there came a light footstep on the vine-shrouded terrace, and she felt an arm stealing softly around her, while a voice, whose briefest tone she could never mistake, whispered in her ear:
"Again we have met, and O, Florence! say, in mercy say, it shall be to part no more!"
There is nothing so natural, to a woman that loves, as the presence of the beloved object; and Florence turned toward Edgar with no amazement or surprise; but love unspeakable lighted her features as she placed her hand in his, tenderly, trustfully, and with a manner that convinced him she would never withdraw it again.
Then she led him into the drawing-room, where the family soon assembled, and were presented to the young artist.
Aunt Mary was delighted with his appearance, and soon engaged him in a conversation which grew very brilliant and animated on his part, and was joined in by Florence and Edith, till Major Howard entered, whose joy at again beholding his former travelling companion knew no bounds, and the mirth and merriment increased four-fold. Evening had fallen ere they were aware, when Edgar rose and said he must return to the hermit's habitation.
All regretted to lose his presence, and Major Howard strongly invited him to regard his mansion as a home while he should remain in the vicinity.
Edgar thanked him for his generous offer, and gracefully bowed a good-evening.
Florence accompanied him to the hall door, and he drew her forth on the terrace, which was now glinted over by the silvery moonbeams.
"Come soon again," said she.
"Yes, dearest," he answered. A long, sweet kiss and gentle adieu, in which there was love enough to feast even her long-famishing soul, and he was gone.
She skipped lightly into the parlor, kissed her father, Aunt Mary, Edith, Sylva, and Fido, the little Spanish poodle that was nestled in her arms, and then bounded up the stairs to her own apartment, singing as she went.
"There goes the happiest heart in Wimbledon, to-night," said her father, as he caught the sound of her musical voice ringing through the spacious hall above.
"Save one," said Aunt Mary, with a sad smile.
"He is beyond its precincts," returned Major Howard. "Edith, did you ever love?" said he, quickly turning his discourse toward the gentle girl, who stood, regarding attentively the faces of the speakers, as if she hardly comprehended their words.
"No," answered she, innocently.
"Heaven grant you never may," said her mother, fervently; "come, my child, let us seek the quiet of our own apartment."
Edith threw her arm affectionately round the wasted form.
"Good-night, uncle," said she, and they all disappeared.
CHAPTER L.
"We leave them at the portalOf earthly happiness;We pray the power immortalMay hover o'er to bless;And strew their future pathwayWith flowers of peace and love,Till death shall call their spiritsTo Eden realms above."
"We leave them at the portalOf earthly happiness;We pray the power immortalMay hover o'er to bless;And strew their future pathwayWith flowers of peace and love,Till death shall call their spiritsTo Eden realms above."
"We leave them at the portal
Of earthly happiness;
We pray the power immortal
May hover o'er to bless;
And strew their future pathway
With flowers of peace and love,
Till death shall call their spirits
To Eden realms above."
When "Summer Home" rose complete in its beautiful architectural design, with its wealth of foliage and flowers all in wildest, richest profusion, a young bride walked under the trailing vines which overhung the marble-supported terrace, and a manly form at her side opened the hall door and ushered her into the magnificent drawing-rooms. It was Florence Lindenwood.
Then a carriage came rolling up the long avenue of cedars, conveying Major Howard, his sister, Edith, and Sylva, with the lap-dog and pet canaries in her care, to the newly-completed mansion. What a regal home they entered, and how proud and happy were their beaming faces!
The day was passed with a social group of friends, among whom Ned Williams, his sister Ellen, and young Willie Danforth, were the most lively and mirthful. At night-fall the hermit appeared, and was warmly received. He sat down by aunt Mary, and conversed calmly, as was his wont.
Florence glanced about the apartment in search of her husband, wondering that he did not come forward to welcome his uncle, but he had disappeared. She flew up stairs to their apartment, and beheld him sitting before a table, apparently absorbed in the contents of some volume. Stepping softly forward, she leaned over his shoulder. He was reading her journal.
"Thief!" she exclaimed, covering the page with her little white hands, "where did you find this?"
"It attracted my notice this morning when I was packing your books for removal," returned he. "I did not know I was so well loved before, Florence," he added, with a provoking smile.
"Look out that I do not cease to love you altogether," said she, shaking her tiny finger playfully in his face, "if you steal into my private affairs in this way. But come below now," she continued, taking his hand; "uncle Ralph has arrived and waits to see you."
They descended to the parlor, and after the pleasant evening was passed and the guests severally departed, the hermit presented to his nephew the fortune left him by his long-deceased father. It was much larger than Edgar had ever supposed. He amply remunerated the care and protection of his kind guardian, and besought him to forsake the forest-hut and dwell beneath his grateful roof. But the recluse waived the entreaties of the young, happy couple.
He "could not desert his home in the cedars. It was the spot where the most placid years of his life had been passed. He would frequently visit the abode of Edgar, and also that of his lately-recovered sister, but still chose to retain the wild-wood habitation as a retreat when melancholy moods rendered him unfit for all society, and he could only find consolation in the lone solitude of nature."
So, with a fervent blessing on their bright young heads, he departed on his solitary way to the distant forest.
And the starry night stole on, while all was quiet and peaceful above and around the mansion of "Summer Home."
THE LAST CHAPTER.
"Let's part in friendship,And say good-night."
"Let's part in friendship,And say good-night."
"Let's part in friendship,
And say good-night."
Shadowy-vested romance, that whilom roamed the grassy paths and flower-strewn ways of Wimbledon, is wrapping the heavy folds of her dew-moistened mantle around her, and stealing silently away. Yet for a moment let her turn a parting glance toward the motley groups which have companioned her midnight rambles, and are seen passing in the distance with their eyes fixed steadily on her receding form.
Foremost in the crowding phalanx we mark the firm, upright figure of Mr. Salsify Mumbles, and his commanding aspect and majestic tread assure us that he has "risen in his profession" to the airy summit of his most ambitious aspirations. We fancy another story has crowned his mansion, and a second piazza stretched its snowy palings around its painted walls. Beside him is his amiable wife, with the sweet baby Goslina, in a robe of dimity, pressed close to her affectionate shoulder, quackling softly as they pass along.
Close behind is Mary Madeline and her tender spouse, a hand of each given to their hopeful son, who, ever and anon, turns his mites of eyes up to his parents' faces and utters a piercing squeal.
Then Miss Martha Pinkerton comes primly on, with Mrs. Stanhope at her side, who turns often with a friendly glance toward a happy-seeming couple that walk apart, as if their chief enjoyment was in each other's society.
"You have rescued and redeemed me," whispered a manly voice in the ear of the graceful figure which leaned so confidingly on his arm.
"Let us forget the past and be happy," said his companion, lifting her clear eyes to his eloquent face.
Their forms faded from our vision, and the pleasant reverie into which we were sinking to weave fair garlands, to crown their future years, was rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was sweeping past.
Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top of her voice.
Mrs. Lawson towered indignantly at her side, joining in wrathful denunciations of the tyrant man; and fair, persecuted Dr. Simcoe's assenting voice was faintly heard amid the fiendish shrieks of those pestiferous younglings, Simcoe's children.
We knew by their ireful aspects some dreadful peril had menaced the cause of Woman's Rights, and while we gazed, their clamor increased to furious yells of rage and defiance, and a dark, descending cloud hung threateningly over their wrathful heads as they passed along.
On their vanishing shadows Mr. Pimble clappered his heelless slippers, with the long skirts of his palm-figured wrapper streaming on the air behind him; like the grim ghost of manhood pursuing its flying aggressors.
Then Florence, like a beam of light, danced past on the arm of Edgar, and a merry, laughing group followed quickly in their rear, among which we recognized the tall, portly form of Major Howard, smiling benignly on the happy faces around him.
But we looked in vain for the thin, bowed figure of his grief-stricken sister. There were two willow-shaded graves in the grass-grown church-yard, and o'er them bent the spectre-like form of the Hermit of the Cedars, his gray locks moistened by the falling night-dews, and his pale face turned upward to the midnight stars with an expression of mournful resignation.
As the clock in the ivy-hung steeple tower rang forth its echoing chimes on the odorous air, we cast one glance toward the swiftly-vanishing groups, and silently turned away.
Cold and bitter on our long-wrapped senses strike the harsh, blunt-edged realities of every-day existence. The multiplied images which but yesterday peopled our brain and thronged on our notice, have "departed thence, to return no more."
The last sound of their multitudinous voices has died in the distance, and Wimbledon is to us as if it had never been.
CHAPTER I.
"Sweetly wildWere the scenes that charmed me when a child;Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark,Leaping rills, like the diamond spark;Torrent voices thundering by,When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high,And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest,'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."
"Sweetly wildWere the scenes that charmed me when a child;Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark,Leaping rills, like the diamond spark;Torrent voices thundering by,When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high,And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest,'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."
"Sweetly wild
Were the scenes that charmed me when a child;
Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark,
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark;
Torrent voices thundering by,
When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high,
And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest,
'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."
October's harvest-moon hung in the blue ether. Brightly fell her golden beams on the tall, old forest trees, that pointed spar-like toward the starry heaven, and down, through their interlacing branches, upon gray, mossy rocks and uprooted trunks, over which wild vines wreathed in untrained exuberance; and dim, star-eyed flowers reared their slender heads among the rank undergrowth of bush and shrub.
And here, in this primeval wildness, her silver beams revealed a low, thatched cottage standing in a narrow opening. Its walls were built of rough stones, piled one upon another in a rude, unartistical manner; and the heavy turf roof, which projected far over the sides, was sunken and overgrown with moss and lichens.
From this rough dwelling proceeded tones of mirth and hilarity. How strangely they sounded in the lone solitude of nature! Through an open window might be seen a group, seated round a small table, consisting of two young men, and an old woman in a high starched cap, with a huge pair of iron-bowed spectacles mounted on her Roman nose. A child was sleeping on a pallet in a corner of the room, and one of the young men passed the candle a moment over the low cot, and, gazing intently on the sleeper, asked in a lively, careless tone,
"Sacri, Aunt Patty! is that your baby, or the fair spirit that unrolls the destinies of mortals to your inspired vision?"
"She is neither one nor t'other," answered the old woman. "Now please to hold that candle up here close to my eyes."
"But I want to know who that is asleep there; for I've a notion she is more concerned in my destiny than anything you'll find in that old teacup."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the woman musingly, as she continued to peer, with a mystic expression of countenance, into a small and apparently empty teacup, which she turned slowly round and round in her skinny hand, muttering at intervals in an ominous undertone.
"Well, Aunt Patty, out with it!" said the youth at length, tired of her long silence. "Isn't it clear yet? Here's another bit of silver; toss that in, and stir up again;" and he threw a shining half-eagle down on the table. The woman's face brightened as she clutched it eagerly.
"Come, now let's hear," continued the young man, "what's to be Mr. Lawrence Hardin's destiny."
"May be, if you saw all I see in this cup, you would not be so eager to know its contents," said the crone in a boding voice.
"What! Whew, old woman! croaking of evil when I've twice crossed your palm with silver! This is too bad."
"But don't you know the decrees of fate are unalterable?" said the woman, solemnly.
"O, law, yes! but I didn't know an old cracked saucer was so formidable."
"It is no saucer, sir; it is a cup, and your destiny is in it."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other young man; "pretty well wound up, Hardin, if your destiny is contained in a teacup."
"Hush!" exclaimed the crone in an angry tone. "More than his or yours, you noisy chatterer! The whole world's, I may say, is in the cup."
"In thepot, you mean," said the youth, knocking with his bamboo stick on the side of a small, black teapot, that stood at the old woman's right hand.
"Well, yes; in the pot, I should say, perhaps," added she in a softened tone.
"The world's destiny is in a teapot, and Aunt Patty Belcher pours it forth at her pleasure; that's it;" and here they all joined in a hearty laugh.
"That will do," said Hardin at length; "now read off, good Dame Belcher. Sumpter is digesting his fortune. Give me a more palatable one than his."
The old woman rubbed her long, peaked nose violently, and then raising her eyes slowly to the young man's face, said, "Thou art ambitious, Lawrence Hardin!"
"Wrong there, most reverend sorceress!" exclaimed the one called Sumpter.
"Now, hark ye!" exclaimed the old crone; "I won't be interrupted. I guess I know my own cups."
"Be quiet, be quiet, Jack!" said Hardin. "Why will you be so presumptuous as to gainsay a prophet's assertions! Go on, Aunt Patty; he will not disturb you again."
"Well, I tell you again," said the woman, casting a disdainful glance on Sumpter, who had withdrawn to a chair at the foot of the cot-bed, and was regarding attentively the tiny form lying there wrapped in tranquil sleep, "I tell youagain, you are ambitious. You want to be thought great. You want to be first. You thirst for power for the sake of bowing others to your will. You have rich parentsnow, and are surrounded by all that heart could wish; but, mind ye, there's a dark cloud in the rear. It threatens tempest and desolation. Soon your parents will be dead, and you hurrying from your rich, splendid home to seek your fortune in a distant country. You will seem to prosper for a while, and then it blackens again. You can see yourself," she added, holding the cup before the young man's face, "that black clump in the bottom."
"I see only a few tea-grounds your turnings and shakings have settled together," remarked he, carelessly.
"Destiny placed them as they are, young men," said the hag, solemnly.
"May be so," he added; "but tell me, how long shall I live? Shall I be successful in love, and will my lady be handsome?"
"Thou wilt live longer than thou wilt wish; ay, drag on many years when thou wouldst fain be sleeping in the earth's cold bed! Thou wilt love,—thou wilt marry, and thy lady will be beautiful as the day-star."
"Enough, enough!" exclaimed the youth, starting to his feet. "Do you hear, Jack? Is not mine a brave fortune? I shall love, marry, and my wife will be a goddess of beauty."
"Yes," said the crone; "but mark, she will not love you."
"Whew! How is that? Not love me? And wherefore not, old woman?"
"Because she will love another," repeated the hag in a low, but firm, decided tone.
"But you are spoiling your fair pictures, Aunt Patty," said Hardin.
"Destiny is destiny," said she with a solemn look.
"Ay, yes; I forgot!" he exclaimed, laughing gayly. "Come, Sumpter, let's be off. I am afraid our good seeress will discover you and I fighting a duel in that ominous cup, or brewing a tempest in her teapot."
"Ha, ha, ha! it is not impossible," ejaculated Sumpter. "Now I believe she did say I would go out of the world in a terrible uproar, shooting somebody or getting shot myself. Which was it, dame?"
"Time will tell you soon enough, young man," returned the woman, in an angry, scornful tone.
"O, don't be cross, good Aunt Patty!" he said, noticing her dark looks; "don't mind my balderdash. Here's another piece of silver for you. Now, good-night, and long live Scraggiewood and the seeress, Madam Belcher!"
"Good-night, young men, and God bless ye, I say!" exclaimed the crone, her eye brightening at sight of the silver.
"Just tell me the name of the little sleeper," said Sumpter, lingering a moment, while Hardin turned the carriage which had brought them to the forest-cottage.
"What do you want to know her name for?" asked Aunt Patty.
"O, because she resembles a sister I lost," returned Sumpter after a brief hesitation.
"Well, it is my niece, Annie Evalyn."
"Ah! she lives with you?"
"Yes; ever since she was born a'most. Her father and mother died when she was a baby."
"Hillo, Sumpter!" said Hardin, from without, "trying to coax a prettier sequel to your fortune? Come on!"
Sumpter hurried forth, and the carriage rattled away over the rough road of Scraggiewood.
CHAPTER II.
"A holy smile was on her lip,Whenever sleep was there;She slept as sleep the blossoms hushedAmid the silent air."
"A holy smile was on her lip,Whenever sleep was there;She slept as sleep the blossoms hushedAmid the silent air."
"A holy smile was on her lip,
Whenever sleep was there;
She slept as sleep the blossoms hushed
Amid the silent air."
The sun was peeping through the crevices of the rock-built cottage when old Dame Belcher, the fortune-teller, awoke on the following morning.
"Well, about time for me to be stirring these old bones," she murmured. "Good fees last night;" and here she drew a leather bag from beneath her pillow, and chuckled over its contents; "these little siller pieces will buy plenty of ribbons and gewgaws for hinny, so she can flaunt with the best of them at Parson Grey's school. She was asleep here last night when the young city chaps came, and don't know a word about their visit; I carried her off in my arms to her own little cot, after they were gone, and I'll creep into her room a moment now to see if she still sleeps."
Thus saying, the old woman slipped on her clothes, and, crossing a rude entry, lightly lifted a latch and entered a small, poor, though very tidy apartment. A broken table, propped against the rough, unplastered wall, contained a bouquet of wild flowers tastefully arranged, and placed in a bowl of clear water, some writing materials, and a few books piled neatly together. A fragrant woodbine formed a beautiful lattice-work over the rough-cut hole in the wall which answered for a window. Two chairs covered with faded chintz, and a small cot-bed dressed in white, completed the furnishing. On this latter, breathing softly in her quiet sleep, lay a lovely child, on whose fair, open brow eleven summers might have shed their roses. The old woman approached, and with her wrinkled palms smoothed away the heavy masses of chestnut hair that curled around her childish face.
"Bless it, how it sleeps this morning!" she said, in a low whisper; "but it must not have its little hands up here;" and she parted the tiny fingers that were locked above the graceful head, and laid them softly on the sleeper's breast. "I may as well go, while she sleeps so quietly, and gather a dish of the crimson berries she loves so well, for her breakfast; they will be nice with a dish of old Crummie's sweet milk;" and, pinning a green blanket over her head, the old woman went forth on her errand.
Meantime the child awoke, and, seeing the sunbeams stealing through the net-work of vines, and streaming so warm and bright over the rough, stone floor, started quickly from her couch, and, robing herself in a pink muslin frock, issued from her room, carolling a happy morning song. She sat down on a bench before the door of the cottage, and in a few moments her aunt appeared, bearing in one hand a white bowl filled with purple berries, and in the other a bucket of milk, all warm and frothing to the brim.
"O, then you are up, hinny!" she said, on seeing the child; "just look at what aunty has got for your breakfast. Now, you come in and pick over the berries with your little, nice, quick fingers, and I'll spread the table, strain the milk, and bake a bit of oaten cake, and we'll have a meal fit for a king."
The child obeyed readily, and soon the humble tenants of the rocky cottage were seated at their simple repast.
"I've some good news to tell you, Annie," said the woman, as she cut open a light, oaten cake, and spread a slice of rich, yellow butter over its smoking surface.
"What is it, aunty?" asked the child.
"There was two gentlemen here last night, after you fell asleep on my bed here, and they gave me lots o' siller for reading their fortunes. I've got it all here in the leather bag for you, hinny; 'twill buy plenty of gay ribbons to tie your pretty hair."
"O, I would not use it for that, aunty!" said Annie, quickly.
"What then, child?"
"For something useful."
"And what so useful as to make my Annie look gayest of all the village lasses?"
"Why, that's no use at all, aunty; I shan't have one more pretty thought in my head for having a gay ribbon on my hair. Use it, aunty, please, to buy me some new books, so I can enter the highest class in school when George Wild does. Mr. Grey says I can read and cipher as well as he, though I am not so old by two years."
"Well, well, hinny, it shall be as you wish; just like your father,—all for books and learning,—though your mother leaned that way too. Yes, of all our family she was always called the lady; and lady she was, indeed, as fine as the richest of them; but poverty, Annie,—O, 'tis a sad thing to be poor!"
"We are not poor, aunty," said the child, pouring the sweet milk over her berries; "only see what nice things we have! this rich milk old Crummie gives us, and this golden butter, and these light, sweet cakes! O, aunty! if you would only—only"—and she paused.
"Only what, child?" asked the fond old woman.
"But you won't be angry if I say it?" said the child, a conscious blush suffusing her lovely features.
"Angry with my darling! no."
"Only not tell any more fortunes, aunty; then we should be so happy."
"Not tell any more fortunes! What ails the child? Why, that's the way half our living comes; and an easy way to earn it, too; much easier than to sit and spin on the little linen wheel from morning till night."
"Easier, but not so honorable, is it, aunty?"
"Honorable! Yes, child; what put it into your pretty, curly head that it was not honorable to read future events and take fees for it?"
"Why, sometimes the girls and boys at school laugh and scorn at me, and call me the old witch's brat, or the young Scraggiewood seeress, or some such name," said the child, in a tone of sorrowful regret; "and I've often wished you would not tell fortunes any more. Learn me how to use the small wheel, aunty, and all the hours when I'm out of school, I'll spin fast as I can. I know we could get a very good living without your telling fortunes; don't you think so, aunty?"
"Why, child, I never thought a word about it," said the old woman, gazing on the beautiful face upturned to hers, and grown so earnest in its pleading.
"But you will think to-day, while I'm at school, won't you, aunty? I see George coming for me, now;" and, moving her chair from the table, she sprang for her satchel and sun-bonnet as her little play-fellow came over the stile, calling her name.
"You must have on your shoes this morning, hinny," said her aunt; "there was a heavy dew last night, and the path is wet."
"Yes," said George, "have them on, Annie, for I want you to go with me by the brook to get some pretty eglantines I saw last night, nearly bloomed; they are all out this morning, I know."
Annie was soon equipped, and, with a hearty blessing from Aunt Patty, they took their way hand in hand toward the village school.
CHAPTER III.
"On sped the seasons, and the forest childWas rounded to the symmetry of youth;While o'er her features stole, serenely wild,The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,Her modesty and simpleness and grace;Yet those who deeper scan the human face,Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth,Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll,That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."
"On sped the seasons, and the forest childWas rounded to the symmetry of youth;While o'er her features stole, serenely wild,The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,Her modesty and simpleness and grace;Yet those who deeper scan the human face,Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth,Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll,That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."
"On sped the seasons, and the forest child
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While o'er her features stole, serenely wild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
Her modesty and simpleness and grace;
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read upon its Heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve that nerved the Roman soul."
Through three bright summers had George Wild led Annie Evalyn over the rough forest path to the village school. They were the only children residing in Scraggiewood, and, therefore almost constantly together. How they roamed through the dim old woods in search of moss and wild flowers, and, in the autumn time, to gather the brown nuts of the chestnut and beech trees; how many favorite nooks and dells they had, in which to rest from their ramblings, and talk and tell each other of their thoughts and dreamings of the life to come! But George would often say he could not understand all Annie's wild words; he thought her whimsical and visionary, and it pained him to find her ambitious and aspiring as her years increased; he would fain have her always a child, rapt in the enjoyment of the present hour, content and satisfied with his companionship and aunt Patty's purple berries and oaten cakes, believing the heaven that closed round Scraggiewood bounded the universe; for something whispered to his heart, if she went forth into the wide world, she would not return to him; and he loved her as well as his indolent nature was capable of loving, and indeed would do a great deal for her sake. She possessed more power to rouse him to action than any other person, and she loved him, too, very well,—but very coolly, very calmly, with a love that sought the good of its object at the expense of self entirely, for she could bear to think of parting with him forever, and putting the world's width between them, so he was benefited and his usefulness increased by the proceeding. And he had always been her companion and protector. Next to her aunty she ought to love him; but his mind was not of a cast with hers; he could not appreciate her dreamy thoughts and aspirations. He was content to fold his arms, and be floated through life by the tide of circumstances, the thing he was; but she could not be so; she must trim her sails and stem the current; within her breast was a spirit that would not be lulled to slumber, but impelled her incessantly to action; there was a quenchless thirst for knowledge, unappeased, and it must be slaked.
Mr. Grey, the kind village pastor, who had become deeply interested in his young pupil during her attendance at the village school, offered to take her under his charge, and afford her the privilege of pursuing a course of study with his own daughter, Netta, with whom Annie had formed a close friendship at school. Aunt Patty said she should be lost without her "hinny," and George Wild remonstrated half angrily with her, for going off to leave him alone; but all to no effect—Annie must go.
"But why won't you go with me, George?" she asked, turning her liquid blue eyes upon his sullen face. "Don't you want to gain knowledge, and fame, and honor, in the great world, and perhaps some day behold multitudes bowing in reverence at your feet?"
"No, I want nothing of all this. I've knowledge enough now, and so have you, if you would only think so. And, as for fame and honor, I believe I'm happier without them, for I've often heard it remarked, 'increase of knowledge is increase of misery.'"
"Well, it is not the misery of ignorance," said Annie, proudly. "I am astonished to hear such sentiments from you, George Wild. I had thought you possessed a nobler, braver heart than to sit down here beneath the oaks of Scraggiewood, and waste the best years of your life in sloth and inaction."
"Why, I've not been sitting alone, have I, Annie?" he asked with an insinuating smile.
"But you will sit here alone henceforth, if you choose to continue this indolent life; childhood does not last forever; my child-life is over, and I am going to work now, hard and earnest."
"For what?"
"For something noble; to gain some lofty end."
"Well, I hope you'll succeed in your high-wrought schemes; but for my part, I see no use in fretting and toiling through this life, to secure some transitory fame and honor. Better pass its hours away as easily and quietly as we can."
"We should not live shrunk away in ourselves, but strive to do something for the benefit and happiness of our species."
"O, well, Annie! if to render others happy is your wish and aim, you have but to remain here in your humble cottage home, and I'll promise you you'll do that."
"Why, George," said she, noticing his rueful countenance, "what makes you look so woe-begone? As if I were about to fly to the ends of the earth, when I'm only going two little miles to Parson Grey's Rectory, and promise to walk to Scraggiewood every Saturday evening with you."
"But I feel as if I was going to lose you, Annie, for all that; the times that are past will never return."
"No; but there may be brighter ones ahead," she answered, hopefully.
George shook his head. None of her lofty aspirations found response in his bosom; the present moment occupied his thoughts. So the common wants of life were supplied, and he free from pain and anxiety, he was content, nor wished or thought of aught beyond. The great world of the future he never longed to scan, nor penetrate its misty-veiled depths, and leave a name for lofty deeds and noble actions, that should vibrate on the ear of time when he was no more.
And thus drifted asunder on the great ocean of life the barks that had floated on calmly side by side through a few years of quiet pleasure. They might never spread their sails together again; wider and wider would the distance grow between them; higher and higher would swell the waves as they sped on their separate courses; the one light and buoyant with her freight of noble hopes and dauntless steersman at the helm, the other without sail or ballast, drifted about at the mercy of winds and waves.
CHAPTER IV.