Eventide
by Effie Afton · English · Gutenberg #20185 · 739,240 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Eventide
Author: Effie Afton
Release date: December 26, 2006 [eBook #20185]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20185
Credits: Produced by Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images produced by the Wright American Fiction
Project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVENTIDE ***
Produced by Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images produced by the Wright American Fiction
Project.)
EVENTIDE
A SERIES OF
TALES AND POEMS.
BY
EFFIE AFTON.
"I never gaze
Upon the evening, but a tide of awe,
And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,
Swells up within me, as the running brine
From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea,
Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream,
Until it threats its, banks. It is not joy,--
'Tis sadness more divine."
ALEXANDER SMITH.
BOSTON:
FETRIDGE AND COMPANY.
1854.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
J. M. HARPER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
District of Massachusetts.
Stereotyped by
HOBART & ROBBINS,
New England Type and Stereotype Foundery,
BOSTON.
_To the_
FIRESIDES OF THE WESTERN WORLD,
_With the fond Hope_
THAT ITS PAGES MAY SERVE TO ENLIVEN OR ENTERTAIN SOME FEW OF THOSE EVENING
HOURS WHEN PLEASANT FACES GATHER ROUND WARM, GLOWING HEARTH-STONES,
_This simple Volume_
IS UNOBTRUSIVELY PRESENTED,
BY THE
UNKNOWN AND NAMELESS AUTHOR,
WHO WOULD
RATHER FIND WARM HEARTS AMONG HER READERS THAN WIN THE LAURELS OF
A TRANSITORY FAME.
Transcriber's Note:
There are two instances of illegible words in this text, both as
a result of ink blots. They have been indicated as [illegible].
PREFACE.
When the sun has disappeared behind the western mountains, and the stars
sparkled o'er the blue concave, we have been accustomed to sit down to
the compilation of this unpretending volume, and therefore it is called
"Eventide." O, that its pages might be read at that calm, silent
hour,--their follies mercifully overlooked, their faults as kindly
forgiven.
Fain would we dedicate this "waif of weary moments" to some warm-hearted,
watchful spirit, who might shelter it from the pitiless assaults of the
wide, wide world. But will not our simple booklet prove too insignificant
a mark for the critic's arrows?
In the language of another, we confidently say, melancholy is indifferent
to criticism.
Thus,
"In our own weakness shielded,"
O, Reading Public, we steal upon you 'mid the falling shadows, and lay
"Eventide" at your feet.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
WIMBLEDON; OR, THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS, 7
SCRAGGIEWOOD, A TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE, 245
ALICE ORVILLE; OR, LIFE IN THE SOUTH AND WEST, 329
COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING, 401
ELLEN, 404
I'M TIRED OF LIFE, 405
LINES TO A FRIEND, ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE, 407
HO FOR CALIFORNIA! 409
N. P. ROGERS, 411
LINES, 413
HENRY CLAY, 415
THE SOUL'S DESTINY, 417
LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND, 419
NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS, 421
MY HEART, 423
OUR HELEN, 425
MY BONNET OF BLUE, 427
DARK-BROWED MARTHA, 429
WIMBLEDON;
OR
THE HERMIT OF THE CEDARS.
CHAPTER I.
"The stars are out, and by their glistening light,
I fain would whisper in thine ear a tale;
Wilt hear it kindly? and if long and dull
Believe me far more deeply grieved than thou."
Clear and loud on the hushed silence of the midnight hour rang the chimes
of the village clock, from the tall steeple-tower of the quaint old
church of Wimbledon, while several ambitious chickens rose from their
neighboring perches, piped a shrill answering salute, and sank to their
nocturnal slumbers again. But nor clock nor chanticleer disturbed
Wimbledon. Still she slept on beneath the blossoming stars; and by their
soft, inspiring light, with your permission, gentle reader, we'll enter
the sleeping village.
Dim gleams of snowy cottages, peeping through a wealth of embowering
vines, steal on our star-lighted vision as we roam along the grassy
streets, and we scent the breath of gardens odorous with the sweets of
dew-watered flowers. Above and around we hear the musical stir of the
night wind among boughs and branches of luxuriant foliage, while ever and
anon it comes from afar with a deep-toned, solemn murmur, as though it
swept o'er forests of cedar and mournfully-echoing pine. Still roaming
on, the low rippling of flowing waters comes soothingly to our ears, and
we pause on the bank of a flower-bordered river that goes sweetly singing
on its way to the distant ocean. A tiny sailboat lies in a sheltering
cove, rocked gently to and fro by the swaying current. On a hill beyond
the stream we mark a large white-belfried building, relieved against a
dark background of wide-stretching timber-land. And turning our delighted
footsteps down an avenue of lofty cedar and linden trees, there rises at
length before our vision a splendid mansion, built after a most beautiful
style of architecture, with deep, bay windows, long corridors and
vine-covered terraces. Magnificent gardens, displaying the perfection of
taste, lay sloping to the southward. On the east the silvery river was
seen glancing through the shrubbery that adorned its banks. To the west
lay a beautiful park and pleasure ground, while far away to the northward
stretched the deep, dense forest, tall, dark and sombre.
And over all this lovely scene the stars shed their mild, ethereal light.
O, Wimbledon! art thou not beautiful 'neath their soft, silver gleams?
And doth not shadowy-vested romance roam thy grassy paths and
flower-strewn ways to-night, and with her wild, mysterious eyes gloating
on thy entrancing scenery, doth she not resolve to dwell awhile, 'mid thy
embowering vines, thy dewy-petalled flowers, mournfully-musical
cedar-groves, and web a fiction from the thousand tangled threads which
complicate and ramify thy social life?
We shall see what we shall see in Wimbledon; for gray dawn is already
breaking in the dappled east, and a man, closely buttoned to the chin in
a gray overcoat, emerges from a large brick mansion on the outskirts of
the village, and directs his steps toward an old, black, rickety-looking
house, which stands just on the bank of the river, surrounded by a
tangled growth of brush-wood.
Here the gairish day at length disclosed what the modest night had
obscured with her diamond veil of stars. Squalid poverty glared through
the broken window-panes, and want seemed clattering her doleful song on
the flying clapboards and crazy casements. A feeble, struggling light
from within showed the inmates were stirring as the man in the overcoat
gave a loud, careless thump on the trembling door, which was opened by a
pale, gaunt-looking urchin, clad in garments bearing patches of divers
hues.
"Is your mother at home, Bill?" inquired the man, gruffly.
"Yes, sir," answered the boy in a meek tone; "will you please to walk in,
Mr. Pimble?"
"No; tell her I want her to come and wash for me to-day," said the man,
in a harsh, rough voice, as he turned away.
The boy bowed and reëntered the miserable apartment, where a few soggy
chips smoked on a bed of embers that were gathered in the corner of a
huge fire-place. A woman, with a begrimed cotton handkerchief tied over
her head, sat on the hearth endeavoring to blow them into a blaze, while
the smoke, that poured down the foul and blackened chimney, caused the
tears to roll from her eyes, and baffled her efforts.
"Never mind the fire, mother," said the lad, approaching; "I'll try and
pick up some dry sticks in course of the day to have the room warm when
you come home to-night. Mr. Pimble has just called, and wants you to go
and wash for him to-day."
"He won't pay me a cent if I go," answered the woman moodily; "all my
drudgery for that family goes to pay the rent of this miserable old
shell."
"I think he will give you something to-day, mother, if you tell him how
needy we are," suggested the boy.
"Never a cent," said the woman, with a gloomy shake of her head;
"however, I may as well go. I shall get a cup of tea and bit of dinner,
and I'll look out to bring you a cake, Willie."
"O, will you, mother?" exclaimed the boy, his wan features brightening
momentarily at the prospect of a single cake to appease the gnawings of
hunger.
The woman threw a coarse, threadbare blanket over her shoulders and went
forth, while the boy bent his way along the riverbank in search of dry
twigs and branches with which to replenish their wasted stock of fuel.
And he thought, as he picked up here and there the scanty sticks and laid
them in small bundles, of some lines of poetry he read on a bit of
newspaper that blew across his path one day:
"If joy and pain in this nether world,
Must fairly balanced be,
O, why not some of the _pain_ to them.
And some of the _joy_ to me?"
And he could not settle the point in his youthful mind. He could not
tell why David Pimble should go to school the year round at the great,
white seminary on the hill, while he could only go about two months in
the cold, biting winter to a town-school a mile distant. He could not
tell why said David should have warm woollen jackets, while his were
threadbare and patched with rags; nor why David should fare sumptuously
on buttered toast and smoking muffins, while he starved on the crusts
that were cast from his well-spread table.
All these were knotty points which poor little Willie Danforth was too
young and untaught to solve. When he should be older and wiser, would he
be able to solve them? He didn't know;--he hoped so; though he feared he
never would be much wiser than now, if he was always to remain so poor,
and be debarred from the privilege of attending school.
There's one school whose doors are and have ever been open wide for
Willie--the school of poverty and experience. Lessons swift and bitter
are indelibly impressed on the minds of the pupils there.
Thoughtful and abstracted, Willie wandered along, gathering his little
bundles of firewood, till he found himself at the foot of the hill on
which stood the great, white seminary where David Pimble, his brother and
sister, went to school month after month and year after year. He heard
voices, and, looking up, beheld the little group that were occupying his
thoughts, on the hill-top, laughing and mocking at him as he toiled along
with his bundles of sticks. His cheeks glowed with anger for a moment,
and then grew ashy pale, as he plodded on toward his miserable home.
Dilly Danforth, the poor washerwoman, had seen better days; but the
drunken dissipation of a husband, who was now in his grave, had reduced
her to abject, despairing poverty. Her unfortunate marriage and
persistence in clinging to the man of her choice, and enduring all his
abuses, excited the displeasure of her family, and they cast her from
them to suffer and struggle on as best she might. She knew not as she had
a relative in the world. She surely had no friend, save Willie, her
little boy, with whom she dwelt in the comfortless abode we have briefly
visited.
Alas for the suffering poor! How prone are the wealthy, by warm, glowing
grates, to forget their cheerless habitations, and turn inhumanly from
their pitiful tales of want and destitution!
CHAPTER II.
"This work-day world, this work-day world,
How it doth plod along!"
Tap, tap, tap, on the back kitchen door of Esq. Pimble's great brick
mansion, and a clattering of plates and tea things within which quite
drowned the timid knock. A second and louder one brought a fat, red-faced
woman with rolled-up sleeves and a dish-towel in hand, to answer the
summons.
"Sakes, Dilly Danforth!" exclaimed she, on beholding the well-known,
faded blanket of the washerwoman; "what brings you here so airly in the
mornin'? If you are after cold victuals, I can tell you you can't have
any, for mistress--"
"I am not come seeking charity," said Dilly, cutting short the woman's
brawling speech; "Mr. Pimble wished me to come and wash for him to day."
"_He_ did?" said the bold-visaged housekeeper, opening her large,
buttermilk-colored eyes with astonishment; "well, for sure!"--and here
she seemed debating some matter in her mind for several moments, her hand
still holding the door in forbidding proximity to poor Mrs. Danforth's
pale, grief-worn face.
"Well, you can come in then, I s'pose," she said, at length, flinging it
open spitefully, and returning to the wiping of her breakfast dishes,
which she sent together with such a crash, that poor Dilly, as she stood
over the stove trying to warm her chilly fingers by a decaying fire,
momentarily expected to see them scattered over the floor in a thousand
fragments.
"Sakes! are you cold this warm spring morning?" snarled the plump,
well-fed housekeeper, as she thumped back and forth, carrying her piles
of plates to the cupboard. "Why don't you shut the outside door after
you, then? For my part, I'm most roasted to death."
"You have been in a warm room, while I have not seen a fire this
morning," said Dilly, meekly, as she closed the door and returned to her
place by the stove.
"Well, I wish I hadn't," answered the ireful Mrs. Peggy Nonce;--"a hard
fate is mine; sweltering over a great fire all my life, to cook for a
family that don't know nothing only to make the work as hard as they can.
Now, here's Mr. Pimble goes and gets you here to wash; never tells me a
word about it till you come right in upon me just as I have got my
breakfast things cleared away, settin'-room swept out, and fire all down
in the kitchen. I s'pose you have had nothing to eat to-day, for you
always come half starved, though why you do so I don't know, save to make
me work and get all you can out of us. When Mr. Pimble rents you that
great house so cheap, too! I declare, I should think, with all that man's
trials, he would get to be a hypocrite and believe in total
annihilation."
Dilly made no reply to this speech. Probably the latter part was beyond
her simple comprehension.
Mr. Pimble himself, the man of trials, as his housekeeper affirmed, now
opened the sitting-room door and looked forth. He was habited in a long,
faded, palm-figured bed-gown, all muffled up round his chin, and
sheep-skin slippers without heels. He had a lank, pale, discouraged
visage, and thin, light hair, streaked with gray, in a very untidy state
straggling about his face. He pulled his wrapper up yet closer about his
head, when he discovered the washerwoman, and shambled across the
clean-swept floor, his heelless slippers going clip-clap after him, as he
stalked along. What a gaunt, unhealthy-looking personage was the rich
Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., of Mudget Square!
"Well, you are come, then, are you?" said he, glancing toward the kitchen
clock, which was on the stroke of eight; "pretty time to commence a day's
work."
"And she has had no breakfast; and the water is not in the kettles," put
in dame Peggy. "I could have had that all hot for her, if you had just
told me she was comin' to wash. But some folks always like to be so sly
and underhanded."
"Stop your clack!" said the master, turning toward her with an angry
glance, "and get a bite of something to eat while she is putting her
water on and building a fire. I shall be at home through the day to
superintend matters and see that all is done to my wishes."
Thus saying, he scuffled back to his warm fire in the parlor; for, though
it was a bright morning in the early part of May, and odorous flowers
opening their petals to the genial sunbeams, and groups of singing birds
merry on all the foliage-covered trees, still Esq. Pimble was
cold--always cold, summer and winter. No genial influence could warm his
sluggish blood, or impart a glow to his dry, parchment-colored face.
There he sat; his feet poised on the fender, and a newspaper in his
skinny clutch, from which he seemed to read. Now and then he yawned,
stretched himself, approached the window, gazed forth for a moment with
some anxiety depicted on his expressionless face, and then sunk down in
his cushioned chair again. All the while the washing was going on briskly
in the kitchen. Peggy Nonce had outlived her morning's asperity, and
concluded to bake a batch of dried apple pies, as there must be a fire
kept in the stove for Billy, and it would save burning the wood another
day for the express purpose of cooking operations. So it appeared dame
Peggy, with all her tempers, had one good point at least, and one but
seldom found in servants,--a lookout for her employer's interests. The
bluffy housekeeper was given to gossip, too, as all of her class are; and
who could give her a better synopsis of the private affairs of half the
families in Wimbledon, than Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, who
performed the drudgery and slop-work in many of the fine homes of the
upper class? But, after all, Peggy had more to give than receive; for by
some means the poor washerwoman did not seem possessed of the "gift of
gab." She was lamentably ignorant on many points where Peggy thought,
with her advantages, _she_ would have been well-informed and able to
answer any question proposed. And so the news-loving housekeeper, though
she remembered her master's interests in the article of firewood, was
fain to forget them in a matter of far more importance, and broached
forth into a long tale of his trials and domestic discomforts. Warming
with her discourse as she proceeded, her voice grew so shrill and
vehement, that Mr. Pimble, had he not been deeply engaged in poring over
the trials his loquacious housekeeper was so eloquently setting forth to
her silent and rather inattentive listener, he would have discovered
himself the hero of a tale which might have lost Mrs. Peggy Nonee a
place she had occupied half a lifetime. But Mr. Pimble sat in bed-gown
and slippers till dinner was announced at one P.M., and the three young
Pimbles tumbled into the hall in boisterous glee, just escaped from the
restraint of school discipline. They all rushed to the table at once,
and called for half a dozen kinds of food in a voice, which the glum,
abstracted father heaped indiscriminately on their plates. There was no
sound save the clatter of knives and forks for several minutes, while
the interesting family discussed their amply-provided and well-prepared
meal. At length Master Garrison Pimble, a lad of a dozen years, declared
sister Sukey had got the biggest piece of venison pie. Susan, a little
girl of seven summers, said she "didn't care if she had; she ought to
have."
"No, you oughtn't either," returned Master Garrison, "for you are not
half as big as I."
"I don't care for that," lisped Susan; "mammy says women ought to have
the best and most of everything, and do just what they like to, and go
just where they want to."
"Well, they shouldn't do any such thing, should they, father?" demanded
the argument-loving Garrison.
"Eat your dinners quietly, my children," returned the silent father, "and
not meddle with matters you do not understand."
"But I do understand them," continued the youth. "I know sister Sukey
ought not to have the largest piece of pie, and she shan't."
Thus saying, he made a dive at Miss Susan's plate, and bore off her
generous slice of venison pastry on his fork. Susey screamed at the top
of her voice, and, clutching her hands in her brother's hair, she pulled
it so vigorously he was fain to drop his prize, which fell to the carpet
and was devoured by a half-starved grimalkin, while he boxed his sister's
ears soundly for her vixen attack upon his bushy black hair.
"I'll learn you to pull my hair!" said he, with a very red face.
"I'll learn you to steal my pie!" shrieked she, as, maddened by her
smarting ears, she flew at him and dug long, bloody scratches in his
cheeks with her sharp little nails. The father now parted the combatants,
and shut the warlike Susey in the closet, where she was loud in
pronouncing maledictions against her brother, and heaping vituperations
upon her father; declaring, when mammy came home, she would tell her how
she was abused in her absence, and mammy would take sides with her,
because she knew men were all cross and ugly, and tried to hurt and wrong
poor feeble woman. Garrison and David finished their meal in silence; and
when the seminary bell rang to announce the hour for reöpening of school,
Mr. Pimble liberated Susey, and all went shouting off together.
Then he called in Dilly and the housekeeper, and, while they dined on the
fragments, went out in the kitchen to inspect the progress there. All
seemed to be moving on well, and, as he was returning to his seat by the
sitting-room fire, a covered buggy drove to the front piazza, and a
gentleman descended and assisted two ladies to alight. Directly the
parlor was dashed open, and the trio made their entry. Foremost was the
mistress of the mansion, Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble. What a puny,
trembling thing appeared the husband, as he stood there like a galvanized
mummy in presence of that tall, portly woman, with her broad shoulders
and commanding aspect! Her first act was to smother the fire; her second,
to throw open the windows; her third, to ensconce herself in her liege
lord's easy-chair, and bid her guests lay aside their travelling garbs,
and make themselves at home. Finding his comfortable seat appropriated,
and no notice vouchsafed him, Mr. Pimble shuffled off into the kitchen.
"Was that your husband, sister Justitia?" inquired the lady visitor, as
she threw off her shawl and bonnet, with an energetic toss.
"Yes," answered the majestic lady in her most majestic tone, "that was
Pimble. You will not mind him at all; he is as near nothing as can be,--a
mere crank to keep the machine in motion,--you understand. He has his
sphere, however. The lowest brute animals have theirs. Pimble's is to
stay at home and superintend the minor matters of life, such as milking
the kine, feeding the chickens, and slaughtering a lamb occasionally to
subserve the grosser wants of poor human nature. In brief, all those
trivial and perplexing things in which a superior mind cannot be supposed
to feel an interest, and by which it is not right it should be fettered,
and prevented from soaring to its own lofty sphere of thought and
action."
Mrs. Pimble paused for breath as she delivered herself of the above
voluble speech, and the lady visitor replied:
"You speak heroicly, sister Justitia. I see you have obtained your
rightful position in your own household. O, would that all our crushed
and down-trodden sisters were possessed of but a tithe of your energy and
independence of character! Then would our young Reform, which encounters
on every side the swords and pickaxes of infuriate battalions of the
tyrant man, ride in triumphal chariot over our whole broad country's
proud domain!"
"Ah, sister Simcoe, how doth your inspired language fill my soul with
fire! I rejoice that you are come among us. How will your presence
encourage our ranks, and, in the triumph of your medical skill, vile male
usurpers of the healing art shall sink to rise no more! I long to read
again the proceedings of our late convention, the thrilling speeches, the
sweeping resolutions!"
"Let us thus occupy ourselves," said young Dr. Simcoe, turning toward a
remote corner of the apartment where sat the small man who had
accompanied the ladies, perched on a hard, uncushioned chair, his hands
folded in his lap, and his eyes bent studiously on the carpet. This was
the personage on whom the accomplished young medical practitioner had, a
few months previous, condescended to bestow the princely honor of her
hand.
"Sim," said the eloquent wife, as she glanced carelessly upon him, "where
are the portmanteaus?"
"In the entry," answered the small man, raising his eyes for a moment to
his fair consort's face.
"Bring them in and open them," said the lady, again sinking down in her
soft seat.
The small man disappeared in a twinkling, and the portmanteaus were soon
placed on the table, and their contents spread forth.
"I will now order some refreshment," said Mrs. Pimble;--"and while it is
preparing, we can amuse ourselves with the documents. What would you
prefer for your dinner, sister Simcoe?"
"Pea soup," returned the lady doctor; "that is my uniform dish,--simple
and plain."
"And Mr. Simcoe, what would he choose?"
"O, he has no choice!--anything that comes handiest will do for him."
Mrs. Pimble glanced toward Mr. Simcoe. Mr. Simcoe simpered and bowed. So
Mrs. Pimble swept into the kitchen to issue her commands. She started on
beholding Dilly Danforth bending over a wash-tub filled to the brim with
smoking linen, just out of a boiling suds. Darting one fiery glance
toward her forceless husband, sitting humped up over the stove, his head
supported on his hands, she exclaimed, "What does this mean?" Mr. Pimble
looked up vacantly; Peggy turned round from her occupation of washing the
dinner dishes, and Dilly kept to her wash-tub. No one seemed to
understand to whom the stately mistress addressed her brief
interrogatory. "Have you all lost your tongues?" at length exclaimed Mrs.
Pimble, in a louder tone; and, seizing her husband's chair, she gave it a
rough jerk, and demanded, "Are you dumb, Peter Pimble? What is that
beggar-woman,"--pointing toward Dilly,--"doing here?"
"Don't you see she is washing?" returned the husband, rather ironically.
"Well, by whose leave?"
"Mine."
"Yours?--and why have you brought a washerwoman into the house in my
absence, and without my permission?"
"Because all my linen was dirty."
"What if it was?"
"I wanted it washed."
"What for?"
"Because the spring courts are held in Olneyville next week."
"What if they are?"
"I would like to attend."
"You would, would you? No doubt, and confine me at home to superintend
the domestic affairs. No, Mr. Pimble, you don't enslave me in that
manner. I'm a free woman, and acknowledge no man master. I'll see if I'm
not mistress in my own house. Here, Dilly Danforth, take your hands out
of that wash-tub, and pack off home, instanter. There will be no more
washing done in my house to-day, or ever again, unless I order it done.
And you, Peggy Nonce, make a pea soup and broil a nice steak, with all
the appropriate dishes, and have a dinner prepared in half an hour, to
serve myself and guests."
There was an instant commotion in the kitchen, and the mistress swept
back to her guests in the parlor.
CHAPTER III.
"She is a saucy wench,
Somewhat o'er full
Of pranks, I think--but then with growing years
She will outgrow her mischief and become
As staid and sober as our hearts could choose."
OLD PLAY.
Mr. Salsify Mumbles was a grocer in a small way, and his good wife took
boarders,--young ladies and gentlemen from different parts of the
country, who came to attend Cedar Hill Seminary, a school of high repute
and extended celebrity. Her number was limited to three this summer,
because she conceived her health to be delicate, and because Mr. Salsify
had communicated to her in private that he was certainly "rising in his
profession;" and the quick-sighted lady foresaw the day speedily
approaching when she would no longer be obliged to perplex herself with
so ungrateful a class of beings as boarders, but should roll through the
streets of Wimbledon in her coach and four, the "observed of all
observers."
Mrs. Mumbles had one fair daughter, Mary Madeline, upon whom she doted
with true maternal fondness. This young lady was most perversely inclined
to smile upon one Mr. Dick Giblet, a clerk in her father's grocery. Mrs.
Mumbles was inconsolable, and Mr. Giblet was banished from the premises,
and taken into employ by the firm of Edson & Co., the largest merchants
in Wimbledon.
Rumor said these gentlemen were so well pleased with the young man, that
they had offered him a yearly salary of several hundred dollars, and
proposed, should he continue to perform his duties as well as hitherto,
to take him into the firm, on his coming of age. Mrs. Salsify now began
to regard Dick with different eyes, as what prudent mother would not? She
sent Mary Madeline to the store of Edson & Co., whenever she was in want
of a spool of cotton or yard of tape; but the young clerk had grown so
vain with his elevation, that he looked very loftily down upon her, bowed
in the most distant manner, and never exchanged more words with her than
were necessary in the buying and selling of an article. So Mary Madeline
told her mother, and upbraided her as the cause of the young man's cold
treatment. Mrs. Salsify bade her daughter be of good cheer. "'Twas all a
feint on Dick's part, to conceal his love till he was sure of hers,--all
would come round right in time." But Mary Madeline would not believe it,
and said she should die if she had to stay in the back store alone so
much, sorting spices and writing labels, for she was constantly thinking
of Dick, who used to be with her. She must have something to divert her
attention; and, at length, Mrs. Salsify hit upon the project of sending
her to school at the seminary one term. It was fitting that the daughter
of the rich Mr. Mumbles that was to be, should be possessed of suitable
polish and refinement to adorn the high circles in which her position
would call her to move. So Miss Mumbles answered to her name among the
two hundred scholars, male and female, that had assembled in the halls of
Cedar Hill Seminary, for the summer term. Quite a sensation she produced
in her gay muslin dress and fiery-colored silk apron; for Mrs. Salsify
declared her resolve to dress her tip-top. She was not the woman to half
do a thing, when she undertook; she always came up to the mark, or went a
little beyond. Better overshoot than fall short, was her motto. And when
Mary Madeline came home, on the evening of her debut at the seminary,
walking between the two young lady boarders, Amy Seaton and Jenny
Andrews, Mrs. Mumbles could not avoid drawing a comparison between the
three; and her daughter appeared to her like a blazing star between two
sombre clouds, for Miss Seaton and Miss Andrews, who were both orphans,
wore plain, dark gingham frocks and linen aprons. The third boarder was a
little brother of Miss Seaton's, about a dozen years of age. Charlie was
his name; a bright, intelligent boy, brimful of mischief and fun.
Mrs. Salsify kept no girl;--she could not find a good one, she said,--a
bad one she would not have, as long as she could manage to perform her
work herself, which she thought she could do with Mary Madeline's
assistance nights and mornings. It would not be for long, she trusted,
this slavery to boarders, for Mr. Salsify continued to inform her, at
stated intervals, that he was certainly "rising in his profession."
The husband and wife sat alone one evening, indulging in confidential
discourse, as 'tis said conjugal mates are wont to do on certain
occasions.
"Really," exclaimed Mrs. Mumbles, "it is astonishing, the quantity of
victuals these boarders consume. It is so unfeminine and indelicate for
young ladies to have appetites. I declare it quite shocks me to see the
large slices of bread and butter disappearing down Jenny Andrews' little
throat, and, as for that Charles Seaton, I believe he would eat a whole
plum pudding if he could get it. I left off making them long ago."
"I have not noticed one on the table for several days," returned Mr.
Salsify, "and, as I saw the last one was sent away untouched, I feared
they had detected the musty raisins."
"O, la, no! the greedy mugs don't know the difference, I assure you,"
answered the wife, "'twas only because they had stuffed themselves so
full of veal pie, that the pudding was not devoured." Just then Amy
Seaton came in and asked if she might get a lunch for Charlie, as he was
not in season for supper.
"O, yes!" answered Mrs. Salsify, in her blandest tone; "here are the
keys. I lock the pantry because Mr. Mumbles is so absent-minded he often
leaves the door open, and the cat gets in and devours the victuals. Get
just what you want for Charlie and a lunch for yourself and Jenny if you
choose."
"Thank you," said Amy taking the bunch of keys from Mrs. Salsify's hand.
Wide swung the pantry door on its creaking hinges, and Amy's eyes
brightened as she stepped in, thinking of the little feast they were to
have up stairs on the good lady's sudden fit of generosity. She glanced
her light eagerly along the shelves in search of pies and sweet cakes,
for she had seen Mrs. Salsify baking a large amount of good things that
morning; but nothing met her wistful gaze save a plateful of burnt
gingerbread crusts which had been picked over and left after the
evening's meal, a plate of refuse meat, and a few bits of salt cod-fish
in a broken saucer. She was about to go and tell Mrs. Mumbles her pantry
was destitute of victuals, when she recollected that lady superintended
her own work, and she should only inform her of what she already knew.
Several similar instances of the lady's singular generosity now occurred
to her mind. She recollected one day, on coming in unexpectedly from
school, of finding Mrs. Salsify buying a large quantity of cherries, and
of her saying she was going to pick them over, and would set them on the
dairy shelf where she might go and eat of them whenever she chose. But
Amy could not find them anywhere, and when she innocently asked Mrs.
Salsify where she had put them, that good lady, after blushing and
stammering a good deal, said they proved so dirty she was obliged to
throw them away. This and other similar occurrences decided Amy to say
nothing of the destitution of the pantry. So she returned the keys to her
boarding mistress, and, without a word, ascended to her room, where she
gave Charlie the bit of fish and crust of gingerbread she had obtained.
"Is this all I'm to have for my supper?" said he, looking ruefully on the
scanty, unpalatable food.
"'Tis all I can find in the pantry, bub," answered Amy; "can't you make
it answer for to-night? and to-morrow I will buy you something nice at
the bakery."
"Why," said Jenny, raising her dark, fun-loving eyes from a problem in
Euclid, "I saw Mrs. Mumbles baking mince pies, and custards and plum
cake, this morning."
"Bah," said Charlie, "I don't want any of her plum cake if she puts the
same kind of raisins in it she does in her puddings. But, Jenny, I think
I know where she keeps her nice victuals."
"Where?" asked Jenny, with an earnest look on Charlie's cunning face.
"Have you never noticed that great tin boiler under her bed?" Jenny burst
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which Amy vainly endeavored to
silence, and directly Mary Madeline appeared and said, "Mother would like
to have a little less noise if they could favor her, as she had company
below." Then the three sat down on the floor, and Jenny and Charlie
planned a midnight attack upon the tin boiler. Amy, who was more sedate
and cautious, advised them to desist; but 'twas just the exploit for
Jenny's frolicsome, mischievous temperament. Charlie was to take a
pillow-case, and creep softly under the bed, and fill it from the
supposed contents of the mysterious boiler, while Jenny stood at the
kitchen door to assist him in bearing the precious burden to their room.
How slow the hours passed after the plot was formed ere it could be
carried into execution! Mrs. Salsify in the parlor below kept wishing her
visitors would go, for she had never seen the wicks in the camphene lamps
of so surprising a length. They flooded the whole room with light, and
she recollected Jenny Andrews had asked the privilege of trimming them
after they were last used. She dared not rise and pick them down, for
such narrow-souled persons as she are always fearful that the truth will
be known and their littleness exposed; so she sat in a perfect fever,
watching the fluid getting every moment lower, and scarcely heeding the
remarks of her guests. At length they took their departure, and Mrs.
Salsify rushed in a sort of frenzy to the lamps, and dropped the caps
over the blazing wicks.
"Mary Madeline," said Mr. Mumbles, reprovingly, "don't you know how to
trim a lamp properly? Enough fluid has been wasted to-night by means of
those long wicks to last two evenings with wicks of a proper length."
"'Tis none of Maddie's doings," returned Mrs. S., "she is more prudent
than that. 'Twas that hussy of a Jenny Andrews who trimmed them after
Miss Pinkerton was here the other night."
"Well, the girl ought to pay for the waste she has occasioned," said Mr.
Salsify, gruffly. "Let us retire now; I declare 'tis near eleven
o'clock." The conspirators in the room above heard with eager ears the
departure of the guests, and sat in perfect silence till midnight chimed
from the old clock tower. Then Charlie Seaton, pillow-case in hand, crept
silently down the stairs with Jenny close behind him. Mrs. Mumbles'
bed-room opened out of the kitchen, and the door was always standing
ajar. Thus Charlie's quick eye had detected the boiler while sitting at
the dining table directly opposite her room. As he now paused a moment in
the kitchen before crossing the forbidden precincts, the deep-drawn
sonorous breathings convinced him that Mr. and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles were
lulled in their deepest nocturnal slumbers. Gently dropping on his knees,
he crawled softly to the object of plunder. Lucky chance! the cover was
off, and the first thing his hand touched was a knife plunged to the hilt
in a large loaf. This he captured and deposited in his bag. Then followed
pies, tarts, etc., and last a small jar, which he took under his arm,
and, thus encumbered, crept on all-fours to the kitchen door, where Jenny
relieved him of the jar. They softly ascended the stairs, where Amy was
ready to receive them.
"How dared you take that jar?" said she; "what does it contain?"
"I don't know," said Charlie; "but I know what my pillow-case contains.
It was never so well lined before, Amy."
Thus saying, he commenced removing its contents, while Jenny pulled the
knife out of the loaf, which proved to be pound cake, uncovered the jar,
and pronounced it filled with cherry jam. "Ay," said Amy, "there's where
those cherries I saw her buying of Dilly Danforth went, then. She told me
they were so dirty she had to throw them away. But I think you had better
go and carry these things back."
"Never," said Charlie; "I am going to eat my fill once in Mrs. Mumbles'
house."
"But what will she say when she discovers her loss?"
"That is just what I'm anxious to know," said Jenny.
"So am I," returned Charlie, chopping off a large slice of pound cake and
dividing two pies in halves. "The old lady goes in for treating her
visitors well, don't she? I dare say these condiments were intended to
supply her guests for years. I wish we had some spoons to eat this cherry
jam."
"You had better carry that back," said Amy.
"No, I will not go down on my knees and crawl under Mrs. Salsify's bed
again to-night on any consideration."
"Neither would I," said Jenny, "the old adage is 'as well be killed for a
sheep as a lamb;' so let us enjoy ourselves to the utmost in our power.
Here is food enough, of the best kind too, to serve us well for the
remainder of our stay here, only a week longer you know. I'll keep it
locked in my trunk."
So saying, they cleared away, and Charlie bade good-night, and all
retired to bright visions of pound cake and cherry jelly.
CHAPTER IV.
"She was a lovely little ladye,
With blue eyes beaming sunnily;
And loved to carry charity
To the abodes of misery."
There was a tiny bark floating down the flower-bordered river that wound
so gracefully through the beautiful village of Wimbledon, and a smiling
little lady, in a neat gingham sun-bonnet, sat coseyly in the stern,
beneath the shady wing of the snow-white sail. A noble-looking lad plied
the oar with graceful ease, chatting merrily the while with the little
girl, and laughing at her constant and matronly care of a large basket
which was placed beside her, neatly covered with a snowy napkin. "One
would think that there were diamonds in that basket, Nell, you guard it
so carefully," said he.
"No, only nice pies mother gave me leave to take to Aunt Dilly Danforth,
the poor washerwoman," returned the little miss, again smoothing the
napkin and adjusting the basket in a new position. "I wish you would row
as carefully as you can, Neddie, so as not to jostle them much."
"So I will, sis," returned he; "let's sing the Boatman's Song as we glide
along." And their voices rose on the calm summer air clear and sweet as
the morning song of birds. Now and then their light barge touched the
shore, and Ned plucked flowers to twine in Ellen's hair. O, that ever,
down life's uncertain tide, these innocent young spirits might float as
calmly, happily on to the broad ocean of eternity!
"Is that the old shanty where Dilly lives?" said the lad at length,
pointing to a low black house, just beyond a clump of brushwood, which
they were swiftly approaching.
"Yes," said Ellen, gathering up her basket.
"Here I must lose you, then," said Ned; "how I wish you would go fishing
with me down to the cove!"
Ellen smiled. "Are you going to be all alone, Neddie?" asked she.
"Nobody but Charlie Seaton will be with me. You like him."
"Yes, I like him well enough," said Ellen, innocently; "but I would not
care to go a-fishing with him."
"Why not, sis?" inquired Ned.
"Because it would not be pretty for a little girl to go fishing with
boys."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the lad; "what a prudent little sis I have got! for all
the world like Amy Seaton. But I like Jenny Andrews better, she is so
full of fun and frolic. Did you know how she and Charlie Seaton robbed
old Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, one night not long since?"
"O, no! robbed her? That was wrong, surely."
"O, no! You see she nearly starved them, so they helped themselves to her
sweetmeats without invitation. That's all; not very wicked, I'm thinking,
Nell."
"I think it was wicked for her not to give them enough food, and wicked
for them to take it without her knowledge," said Ellen, after a pause.
"But what did she say when she discovered her loss?"
"Not a word. What could she say?" asked Ned.
"I could not guess, and therefore inquired," said Ellen. "Will Jenny come
to school next term?"
"Yes, Jenny, Amy and Charlie, and board at Dea. Allen's. That will be a
good place; only I fancy the deacon's long prayers and sober phiz will
prove a sad trial to Jenny. Well, you must go, sis," said he, pushing his
boat high up on the green, grassy bank, by a few skilful strokes of his
oar. Then assisting her out and placing the precious basket safely in her
arms, he was soon gliding down the smooth current again. Ellen directed
her steps toward the dilapidated dwelling a few yards before her, turning
frequently to catch a glimpse of her brother's little bark as it came in
view through some opening in the shrubbery that grew on the river's side.
One timid rap brought Willie Danforth to the door. The poor boy looked
quite embarrassed to behold pretty, neat Ellen Williams standing there on
the miserable, dirty threshold. "Good day, Willie," said she, pleasantly;
"is your mother at home?"
"No, miss, she is scrubbing floors at Mr. Pimble's," said Willie,
awkwardly enough.
"O, I am sorry she is gone, for I wanted to see her very much. Will you
let me come in and leave this basket for her?"
"O, yes!" answered the poor lad, "or I will carry it in for you."
"I can carry it very well," said Ellen, "if you will only let me go in."
"I would let you come in, Miss Ellen," returned Willie, "only I am afraid
it would frighten you to see such a sad, dirty place;" and the ragged
little fellow blushed crimson, as he thus revealed his poverty and
destitution.
Ellen pitied his embarrassment, and said, "I should like to go in,
Willie, because, if I saw what you needed, I could tell mother, and she
would make you more comfortable, I know."
The boy lifted the wooden latch of the inner room. The door opened with a
dismal creak, and Ellen entered. There was one old, broken-backed chair,
which he offered her, and sat down himself on a rough bench, with a
sorrowful, embarrassed expression on his pale, interesting features.
Ellen, still noticing Willie's painful confusion, knew not what to do
after placing her basket on the rude, wooden table, and began to regret
that she so strongly pressed an entrance.
"I told you you would be frightened," said the boy at length, in a
choking tone.
"O, I am not frightened!" returned Ellen, glad to speak now that he had
opened the way for her; "I am only sorry to find people living so
forlornly in our pretty, happy village. I thought you had a good nice
house to live in, for Mrs. Pimble said so, and that her husband rented it
to you for almost nothing, and that your mother--but I won't say any
more," said Ellen, stopping short in her discourse.
"Yes," said Willie, "tell me all she said, and then I will tell you
something."
"Well, then, she said your mother only went out washing to make folks
think she was needy, so they would give her food and clothing. 'Twas
wicked for her to say it, surely."
Willie's face grew pale as death, and then flushed crimson to the
temples.
"Don't look so," said Ellen, approaching the bench and putting her little
hand on his hot cheeks. "O, Willie! you are sick and tired," she
continued, soothingly; "will you not lay your head down on my lap, and
tell me all about your troubles?"
Willie's full heart overflowed. Those accents of kindness, so strange to
his ears, what a magic power they had! He leaned his dear bright head on
her soft little palm, and his low voice told in broken accents a tale of
want and suffering. Ellen wept, for her young heart was full of
tenderness and sympathy. The hours sped on, while they thus held
converse, till a hand on the latch aroused them. 'Twas Dilly returned
from her day's work at Mr. Pimble's. Willie sprang up to meet her. "O,
mother!" said he, "a sweet angel has come since you left me, this
morning, crying because I was so hungry."
"Alas, my boy!" said the woman, "I fear you must still go hungry, for I
have brought you nothing. Mr. Pimble says my week's work must go for
rent."
Now was Ellen's moment of joy, as she bounded across the broken floor and
lifted the napkin from her basket. "No, no, Willie,--no, no, Aunt Dilly,
you shall not go hungry to bed to-night. Look what mother has sent you!
How thoughtless of me not to have remembered my basket before, when
Willie has been suffering from hunger all these long, long hours!"
"O, no! I have not thought of being hungry since you came," said the boy.
Mrs. Danforth approached the basket and gazed on its contents with
tearful eyes. She had not seen the like on her table for many a day, and,
dropping on her knees, she breathed a silent prayer to God for his
goodness in putting it into the hearts of his children to remember her in
her need! Willie brought forth a small bundle of sticks and lighted a
fire, while Ellen ran and filled a black, broken-nosed tea-kettle, and
hung it on a hook over the blaze. It soon began to sing merrily, and the
children laughed and said it had caught some of their happiness. Then
Ellen took some tea from the paper her mother had wrapped so nicely, put
it in a cracked blue bowl, and Willie fixed a bed of coals for her to set
it on. Dilly sat all the while gazing with tearful eyes on the two
beaming faces which were constantly turned up to hers, to see if she gave
her approval to their movements. At length the repast was prepared, and,
after partaking with them, as Mrs. Danforth insisted upon her doing,
Ellen set out for home, with Willie by her side. He hesitated some at
first, when his mother told him he must accompany her, for his jacket was
ragged and his shoes out at the toes. But when Ellen said so
reproachfully he was "too bad, too bad, to make her go all the way home
alone," he brightened, and said "he would be very glad to go with her if
she would not be ashamed of him." So they set out together, each holding
a handle of the basket; Ellen bidding Aunt Dilly a cordial good-by, and
promising to come soon again and bring her mother. They met Mr. Pimble on
their way, who scowled and passed by in silence.
Ellen found her mother anxiously waiting her return. She heard with
pleasure and interest her little daughter's animated description of her
visit; but when she said she had promised to visit Aunt Dilly soon again,
and take her mother with her, Mrs. Williams looked sad.
"What makes you look so, dear mamma?" said Ellen; "will you not go and
see poor Dilly?"
"I shall be very glad to do so, my dear child," answered the fond mother,
"if it is possible. You know your father has often wished to remove to a
place where his skill in architecture might be employed to better
advantage, and an excellent opportunity now offers for him to dispose of
his situation here, and remove to a large city, where his services will
be in constant demand."
"And I shall never see Willie Danforth again," said Ellen, bursting into
tears.
Childhood is so simple and unaffected, ever expressing with innocent
confidence its dearest thought, and claiming sympathy! Mrs. Williams
tried long to comfort her little daughter, and at length succeeded by
holding out a prospect that she might some time return and visit her
early associates. Ned was consoled by the same prospect. But then, we
never know, when we leave a place, what changes may occur ere we revisit
its now familiar scenes. Mrs. Williams felt this truth more vividly than
her children. But few changes had marked their sunny years, and it never
occurred to their youthful minds but what Wimbledon as she was to-night
would be exactly the same should they return five or ten years hence. The
mother did not disturb this pleasant illusion, "for experience comes
quite soon enough to young hearts," she said, "and I'll not force her
unwelcome lessons upon my happy children." So Ned and Ellen, when it was
decided they should leave on the morrow, almost forgot the pangs of
departure from their rich, beautiful home, so intently were they dwelling
on the joy of returning and meeting their schoolmates and companions
after a period of separation. O, gay, light-hearted youth! What is there
in all life's after years, its gaudy pomp, its feverish flame, or
short-lived honors, that can atone for the loss of thy buoyant hopes, and
simple, trusting faith?
Sad was poor Dilly Danforth when she heard of the sudden departure of the
benevolent Williams family, and bitterly she exclaimed, "No good thing is
long vouchsafed the poor. Our poverty will only seem the darker now for
having been brightened for a transient hour."
Willie, who had returned from his walk with Ellen with severe pains in
his limbs and head, fell sick of a rheumatic fever, and suffered much for
the want of warm clothing, care and medical treatment. O, how often he
thought of Ellen! "If she were there he would not suffer thus. She would
be warmth, care, clothing and physician for him."
His mother was obliged to labor every day to procure fuel for the fire;
and to warm the great, cold room, where the piercing autumn blasts blew
through wide gaping cracks and chasms, and get a bottle of wormwood
occasionally, with which to bathe his aching limbs, was the utmost her
efforts could accomplish. With this insufficient care, 'twas no wonder
Willie grew rapidly worse. One bitter cold night Dilly sat down utterly
discouraged as she placed the last stick of wood on the fire. Her boy had
been so ill for several days she could not leave him to go to her
accustomed labor, and consequently the small pile of fuel was consumed.
What was she to do? Willie was already crying of cold, and she sat over
the expiring blaze crying because she had naught to render him
comfortable. After a while he grew silent, and, softly approaching, she
found he had sunk into a quiet slumber. Carefully covering him with the
thin, tattered blankets, she pinned a shawl over her head, and, softly
closing the door behind her, stole forth into the biting night air, and
directed a hasty tread toward Mr. Pimble's great brick mansion. A bright
light gleamed through the kitchen windows as she ascended the steps and
gave a hurried knock. Directly she heard a shuffling sound, and knew Mr.
Pimble, in his heelless slippers, was approaching. Fast beat her heart as
the door opened, and she beheld his gaunt form and unyielding features.
"What brings you here this bitter cold night, Dilly Danforth?" exclaimed
he, in a surly tone, as the furious blast rushed in his face, and nearly
extinguished the lamp he held in his skinny grasp.
She stepped inside, and he closed the door.
"'Tis the bitter cold night which brings me, Mr. Pimble," she said,
feeling she must speak quickly, for Willie was at home alone; "my boy is
sick and suffering from cold. For myself, I would not ask a favor, but
for him I entreat you to give me an armful of wood to keep him from
perishing."
"Why don't you work and buy your wood?" asked he, angered by this sudden
demand upon his charity.
"I worked as long as I could leave my child," answered Mrs. Danforth,
"and I thought maybe you would be willing to allow me something for my
work here."
"Allow you something, woman? Don't I give you the rent of that great
house for the few light chores you do for us, which really amount to
nothing? Your impudence is astonishing;" and Esq. Pimble's voice quivered
with rage, as he thus addressed the trembling woman.
Dilly stood irresolute, and Mr. Pimble was silent a few moments, when a
voice from the parlor called out, imperiously, "Pimble, I want you!"
The man roused himself and rushed to the door in such haste as to lose
both his slippers.
"What are you blabbing about out there?" Dilly heard Mrs. Pimble ask, in
an angry tone.
"Dilly Danforth has come for some wood," was the moody reply.
"And so you are giving wood to that lazy, foolish, stupid creature, are
you?"
"No, I am not. She says her boy is sick and she has no fire."
"A pretty tale, and I hope 'tis true. She'll learn by and by her sin and
folly. If she had asserted her own rights, as she should have done, and
left her drunken husband and moping boy years ago, she might have been
well off in the world by this time. But she chose like an idiot to live
with him and endure his abuses till he died, and since she has tied
herself to that foolish boy. O, I have no patience with such stupid
women! They are a disgrace to the true female race. Go and tell her to go
home and never enter my doors a-begging again."
Dilly did not wait to receive this unfeeling message, but pulled her thin
blanket around her, and stole out in the chill night air, and ran toward
home as swiftly as possible. She stumbled over something on the
threshold. It was a bundle of firewood. How came it there? She could not
tell, but seized it in her arms, ran hastily in, and approached Willie's
bed-side. He was still sleeping tranquilly, and that night a comfortable
fire, lighted by unknown generosity, blazed on the lowly hearth.
CHAPTER V.
"There is a jarring discord in my ear,
It setteth all my soul ashake with fear,
Good sir, canst drive it off?"----
OLD PLAY.
All Wimbledon was aroused one cold November morning by a direful
conglomeration of sounds;--strange, discordant shrieks, ominous groans,
a clanking, as of iron chains and fetters, a slow, heavy, elephantine
tread gradually growing on the ear, and a deep, continuous rumbling as of
earthquakes in the bowels of the earth. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, nervous and
delicate as she was, clung fast to the neck of her liege lord when he
attempted to throw open the sash of his window, to discover the import of
this unusual disturbance of the nocturnal stillness of Wimbledon. Good
Deacon Allen, who was lying on his deaf ear, became restless, and visions
of the final retribution and doom of the wicked harassed his slumbers.
Suddenly he awoke, and dismal groans and unearthly rumblings struck his
terrified ear. "Sally! Sally!" said he, leaping from bed and giving his
sleeping spouse a vigorous shake, "why sleepest thou? arise and don thy
drab camlet and high-crowned cap, and prepare to meet thy Lord; for
behold he cometh!"
"Samuel," said the good wife but half awake, "you are prating in your
sleep. Return to your pillow and be quiet till day-break."
"You speak like a foolish virgin, Sally," returned the excited deacon.
"Do you not hear the roaring of the resurrection thunder and the wailings
of the wicked?"
"I do hear something," said Mrs. Allen, now poking her night-capped head
from beneath the blankets, and listening a moment attentively. "'Tis a
sound of heavy carts drawn by oxen over frozen ground. Ay, I guess it is
the new family, that bought out neighbor Williams, moving their goods.
Just look out the window,--our yards join,--and see if there is not a
stir there." The deacon obeyed.
"O, yes," said he, "I can distinguish several loaded teams and dusky
figures moving to and fro."
"I thought 'twas the new-comers," returned the wife, who possessed more
ready wit and shrewdness than her amiable consort, and, withal, could
hear vastly better. "You had better come to bed again, Samuel;--'tis an
hour to daylight."
"I cannot get to sleep again, I have been so disturbed," said the
husband, fidgetting round in the dark room to find his clothes.
"O, pshaw!--put your deaf ear up and you'll soon fall off," answered the
wife, drawing the covering over her head. Deacon Allen, who had a very
high opinion of his wife's good sense, concluded to follow her advice,
and the happy couple were soon enjoying as pleasant a morning snooze, as
though neither the resurrection nor the "new family" had disturbed their
slumbers.
Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton, who slept in the room above, never heard a
sound, nor did Charlie in his cosey chamber beyond, and great was the
astonishment of the young people, on opening their casements, to behold
the long line of heavy-loaded teams drawn up in the yard of the splendid
mansion which stood next above Dea. Allen's, the former residence of Esq.
Williams. Teamsters in blue frocks were unfastening the smoking oxen from
the ponderous carts, and as the girls hurried below to impart the
intelligence of the arrival of the new family to Mrs. Allen, they heard
the voice of Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, and entering the sitting-room found
that lady laying aside her bonnet and shawl. Mary Madeline was standing
by the window gazing into the adjoining yard. Jenny and Amy had not seen
their former boarding mistress since they left her house at the close of
the summer term, several months before. But she was so elate about the
arrival of the new family that all memory of their former ill-usage
seemed to have escaped her, and she grasped the hands of both and shook
them cordially. "I am glad to see you," she exclaimed; "why have you not
called on us this fall? Mary Madeline has often said I wish Jenny and Amy
would come in, it would seem so much like old times. Here, my dear," said
she, seizing hold of the young lady's shawl and pulling her from the
window, "don't be so taken up with the new family that you can't speak to
your old friends." Mary Madeline now turned and spoke to her former
schoolmates. Then, drawing a chair close to the window, she resumed her
gaze, with her gloves and handkerchief lying unheeded on the floor and
her gay shawl dragging behind her. "O, mother! mother!" she exclaimed at
length, "there comes the family."
Mrs. Salsify, who was engaged in telling Mrs. Allen of Mr. Salsify's
prosperity, and how he was "rising in his profession," and how he
meditated adding another story to his house and putting a piazza round it
next spring, dropped all, even her snuff-box, and rushed to the window as
a large covered wagon, drawn by a span of elegant black horses, drove
rapidly into the adjoining yard. First alighted a tall man in a black
overcoat,--the master no doubt, the gazers decided,--then a tall man in a
gray overcoat, then a tall man in a brown overcoat. And the man in the
black overcoat and the man in the gray overcoat moved away, the former up
the steps of the mansion and around the terraces, trying the fastenings
of the Venetian blinds, and examining the cornices and pillars of the
porticos; the latter turned in the direction of the stables and
outhouses, while the man in the brown overcoat assisted three ladies to
alight, all grown-up women, one short and fat, the other two tall and
thin. The gazers were a little puzzled by the appearance of the new
family. As far as they could discover there was no great difference in
the respective ages of the six individuals who had alighted from the
wagon, and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles declared it as her opinion that the
family consisted of three brothers who had married three sisters for
their wives. The short, fat woman, who had a rubicund visage and
turned-up nose, and wore a broad-plaided cashmere dress, drew forth a
bunch of keys from a wicker basket that hung on her arm, and with a
pompous tread ascended the marble steps, unlocked the broad,
mahogany-panelled door, turned the massive silver knob, and, swinging it
wide, strode in, the tall ladies in blue cloaks following close behind.
Soon sashes began to be raised, blinds flew open, and the tall ladies
were seen standing on high chairs hanging curtains of rich damask and
exquisitely wrought muslin, before the deep bay windows. The three tall
men threw off their overcoats, and, with the assistance of the
blue-frocked teamsters, commenced the business of unlading the carts.
"All the furniture is bagged," said Mrs. Salsify, impatiently; "one
cannot get a glimpse to know whether 'tis walnut, or rosewood, or
mahogany. They mean to make us think 'tis pretty nice, whether 'tis or
not; but we shall find out some time, for they can't always be so shy.
Well, Mary Madeline," she added, turning to her daughter, "we may as well
go home, I guess;--there's nothing to be seen here but chairs and sofas
sewed up in canvas. I thought I would run over a few minutes, Mrs. Allen,
as I knew your windows looked right into the yard of the new comers, and
we could get a good view. Of course, we wanted to know what sort of folks
we were going to have for neighbors. I hope they'll be different from the
Williams'."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Allen, looking up from the brown patch she was engaged
in sewing on the elbow of the deacon's black satinet coat. "I only hope
they will prove as good neighbors and I will be perfectly satisfied."
"O, I don't know but what the Williams' were good enough, but they were
too exclusive, too aristocratic for me. Mrs. W. never thought Mary
Madeline fit for her Ellen to associate with."
"How do you know she thought so?" asked Mrs. Allen; "for my part, I lived
Mrs. Williams' nearest neighbor for ten years or more, and always
considered her a very kind-hearted, unassuming woman, wholly untainted
with the pride and haughtiness which too often disfigure the characters
of those who possess large store of this world's goods and move in the
upper circles."
"Well, you were more acquainted with Mrs. Williams than I was, of course;
but she was not the kind of woman to suit my taste. There's Mrs. Pimble
and Mrs. Lawson now, both rich and splendid, keep their carriages and
servants, but they are not above speaking to common people."
"I am not personally acquainted with those ladies," answered Mrs. Allen.
"They are reformers," said Mrs. Mumbles, in a reverential tone; "you
should hear their awful speeches. Daniel Webster could never equal them,
folks tell me."
"I have understood that they belonged to the fanatical class of female
lecturers that have arisen in our country within the last few years."
"O, they hold conventions everywhere, and such terrible gesticulations as
they pronounce against the tyranny and oppression of the female sex by
the monster man!" said Mrs. Salsify. "I declare I wish they would have
one of their indignation meetings here, for I think the men are getting
the upper hand among us."
"Doubtless you would join their ranks should they do so," observed Mrs.
Allen, with a quiet smile, as she arose, gave the deacon's coat a shake,
and hung it on a peg behind the door.
"Well, I don't know but I should," returned Mrs. S.; "but come, Maddie,
how we are wasting time! I declare, two carts are already unloaded, and
there goes the seminary bell. 'Tis nine o'clock." Jenny, Amy and Charlie,
ran down stairs all equipped for school, as Mrs. Mumbles and her daughter
stepped into the hall, and all went forth together. Mrs. M. repeated her
invitation for the young ladies and Charlie to visit her, and the girls
laughingly promised to do so at their first leisure. Mary Madeline went
to Edson's store on an errand, and her mother proceeded directly home.
Great was her anger to behold the back kitchen door swinging wide. She
shut it behind her with a slam, muttering some impatient exclamation
about Mr. Salsify's stupid carelessness. As she stood by the stove
warming her chilled fingers, a noise from the pantry startled her ears,
and, opening the door, she beheld the great, shaggy watch-dog, that
belonged to the store of Edson & Co., lying on his haunches with a nice
fat pullet between his paws, which he was devouring with evident relish
and gusto. He turned his head towards her, uttered a low growl, and went
on with his breakfast again. Mrs. Salsify looked up to a peg on which she
had hung six nicely-dressed chickens the night before. Alas! the last one
was between the bloody devourer's paws. She glanced toward a pot she had
left full of cream, under the shelves. It was empty; and toward her
rolling-board, where she had left a pan of rich pie-crust, with which she
was intending to cover her thanksgiving pies. All had disappeared. She
trembled with rage.
"Get out, you thievish rascal!" she exclaimed, bringing her foot
violently to the floor.
The dog sprang toward her, and, seizing the skirt of her gay-striped,
bombazine dress with his glistening ivories, rent it from the waist, flew
through the parlor window, and rushed through streets, by-lanes and
alleys, rending the flaring fabric, and dragging it through mud-holes
till it looked like some fiery-colored flag borne away by the enemy in
disgrace.
Mrs. Salsify rushed down into her husband's shop in awful plight, her
hair standing on end, and her great, green eyes almost starting from
their sockets. Mr. Salsify looked with amazement on his lady, as did also
the half-score of customers that stood around his counters. Her
saffron-colored skirt was rent in divers places, revealing the black one
she wore beneath, and the gay-striped waist she still wore was hung round
with ragged fragments of the vanished skirt.
"Lord, love us, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Salsify, rushing
toward his wife.
"Edson's dog has eat up six chickens, a cream-pot, a rolling-board,
pie-crust, and all!" exclaimed Mrs. Mumbles, with a frantic air, as she
fell into her husband's outstretched arms, wholly unmindful of the
laughter her appearance and words had excited among her good man's
customers.
"Edson's dog,--how could he get into the house?" demanded Mr. Mumbles.
"I saw him out with Dick Giblet, this morning, when he was leaving
packages," said little Joe Bowles, with a mischievous leer in his black
eyes.
The husband and wife exchanged a glance. The whole truth flashed upon
them,--'twas a trick of Dick's. Mr. Salsify ordered his customers to
leave the shop, and locking the door, he led his terrified, trembling
wife up stairs, where they found Mary Madeline lying on the floor in a
fainting fit, with the fragments of her mother's skirt clenched tightly
in her cold hands.
CHAPTER VI.
"Her face was fairer than face of earth;
What was the thing to liken it to?
A lily just dipped in the summer dew?
Parian marble--snow's first fall?
Her brow was fairer than each,--than all.
And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,
'Twas not like blood that wandered through.
Rarely upon that cheek was shed,
By health or by youth, one tinge of red,
And never closest look could descry,
In shine or shade, the hue of her eye,
But, as it were made of light, it changed
With every sunbeam that over it ranged."
The midnight stars were over all the heaven, O, wildly, wildly bright!
Orion, like a flaming monarch, led up "the host of palpitating stars" to
their proud zenith, while, far in the boreal regions, danced strange,
atmospheric lights, with flitting, fantastic motions and ever-changing
forms and colors. A young girl stood in the deep recess of a large
window, with the rich, blue-wrought damask curtains wrapped closely about
her slight, fragile form, gazing intently on the splendors of the
midnight heaven. Long she stood there, and no sound broke the stillness,
save now and then a half-audible sigh. At length she said, "I cannot
endure this solitude and the depression which is stealing over me. Would
that I had a mother to love and bless me! Father is often so strange and
silent, and Rufus cannot sympathize with my feelings. I must call Sylva
to bear me company, for one of my nervous attacks is upon me, and I
cannot sleep." Softly opening a side-door, she said, in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, "Sylva, are you awake?"
"Yes," was the answer; "what is your wish, Miss Edith?"
"That you would come and sit with me a while."
"What time is it!"
"I know not; but, by the stars, it should be little after midnight."
"Return to your room, and I will soon be there with a light," answered
the one called Sylva.
The young girl did as requested, and sank down in a large arm-chair which
nearly concealed her in its soft cushions. Presently the small side-door
opened, and Sylva entered, bearing an astral lamp and a few light pieces
of kindling wood.
"O, I don't mind a fire!" said Miss Edith.
"Well, I do," answered the woman; "you would catch your death, up here
half the night with no fire."
"'Tis a cold place we are come to, isn't it Sylva?" said the young lady,
springing from her chair and wrapping an elegant cashmere dressing-gown,
lined with azure satin, round her tall, delicate figure, and then again
sinking down among the soft velvet cushions of her spacious fauteuil.
"Yes, Miss Edith, it is, indeed," answered Sylva, as she lighted a bright
fire in the polished grate. "How your father expects to rear so fragile a
bud in this bleak region I do not know."
"I have never seen him in such spirits as since we came here," returned
Edith, toying with the silken tassels of her rich robe. "You know he was
always so silent and reserved in our former home, Sylva. But sometimes I
fancy there is something unnatural in his manner. One moment he will
laugh wildly, and the next a dark frown will have gathered on his brow.
Twice he has caught me in his arms and said, 'Edith! Edith, you have a
part to play, and I rely on you to do it!' Then he would look on me so
sternly, I would burst into tears, and strive to free myself from his
embrace. What did he mean by such words, Sylva?"
"Why, that you are coming on to the stage of action, and he desires you
to be educated and accomplished in a manner to adorn the high circles in
which you will move."
"O, more than that, Sylva!" said Edith doubtfully; "he need not have
looked so stern, were that all; but still he is a kind, indulgent father
for the most part. I should not complain;" and the young girl relapsed
into thoughtful silence. The pale fire-light glowed on her delicate
features. One tiny white hand rested on the cushioned arm of the chair,
and the large, melancholy blue eyes were fixed on the glowing blaze
within the shining ebon grate. The profile was strictly Grecian in
outline, and the soft, silken hair fell in a shower of golden ripples
over her small, sloping shoulders. Her lips were vermilion red, and
disclosed two rows of tiny pearls whenever they parted with dimpling
smiles.
"Have you become acquainted with any of the village people, Sylva?" asked
the fair girl, rousing at length from her reverie.
"No, save this young Mrs. Edson, who called yesterday, I have seen no
one," returned the woman, "unless I mention that sunken-eyed washerwoman,
Dilly Danforth, as she is called."
"O, I saw her on the steps one day! What a forlorn-looking creature she
is! I think she must be very poor. Still, it seems to me there should be
no poverty in this rich, happy-appearing village. I fancy it will be a
love of a place in summer, Sylva, when all the maples and lindens are in
leaf, and the numerous gardens in flower. O, when father took me out in
the new sleighing phaeton last week, I saw a most magnificent mansion,
grander than ours, even. The grounds seemed beautifully laid out, and
over the arching gateway I read the words 'Summer Home' sculptured in the
marble. It is closed at present, but when the occupants return in the
spring, I hope I shall get to know them, for I would dearly love to visit
at so delightful a place. Father said I should become acquainted with the
family. He knows their names, and I think said he had met the gentleman
once." Edith grew quite smiling and happy as she prattled on, forming
plans and diversions for the coming summer. Sylva listened to her
innocent conversation in respectful silence, and, after a while, as the
fire burned low, and the cocks began to crow from their neighboring
perches, the sweet girl ceased to speak. She had wearied herself and
fallen asleep.
The sun was shining brightly through the blue damask curtains when she
awoke, and Sylva was bending over her, parting away the rich masses of
auburn curls which had fallen over her face as she leaned her head over
the arm of the chair. "Your father and Rufus are calling for you," said
the attendant pleasantly.
"Why, how long I have slept!" said Edith, opening her blue eyes with a
wondering expression. "What o'clock is it, Sylva?"
"It is half-past nine," answered the woman.
"I have been dreaming the strangest dream about that beautiful mansion I
was telling you I saw in my ride the other day--that 'Summer Home,' as it
is so sweetly styled. I thought I saw a lovely young girl there, younger
than myself, but far more womanly in aspect, and she said she was my
cousin, and kissed me, and gave me rare flowers and delicious fruit. Did
you say father had called for me? Well, I'll dress and go down in the
parlor. What are you doing there, Sylva?"
"Getting your muff and tippet," answered she.
"Is father going to take me out?" asked Edith with animation.
"Rufus is going to take you to church," said Sylva. "He said you
expressed a wish to go last Sabbath, but it was too cold. To-day is more
pleasant, and he is ready to attend you."
"He is kind," said Edith. "Am I not a naughty girl to murmur when I have
a brother so good, and a father who loves me so dearly?"
"You do not murmur, do you, Miss Edith?"
"Sometimes I wish I had a mother, or that she had lived long enough to
leave her form and features impressed on my memory."
A tear fell as the fair girl spoke thus, but she brushed it quickly away,
and commenced arraying herself for church.
"I shall be delighted to behold the interior of that antiquated looking
building," remarked she, as Sylva placed the dainty hat over the
clustering curls; "and, besides, I can see all the village people, and
form some opinion of those who are henceforth to constitute our
associates and friends."
"And all the people will see you, too," said Sylva, smiling.
"O, I don't mind that!" answered Edith; "they would all see me, sooner or
later, as I'm to go to school, in the spring, at the white seminary on
the hill."
Thus speaking, the beautiful girl descended to the drawing-room. A tall,
elegantly-proportioned man, with a magnificent head of raven black hair,
which hung in one dense mass of luxuriant curls all round his broad,
marble-like brow, and quite over his manly shoulders, was leaning in a
careless, graceful attitude against a splendid mahogany-cased piano, that
stood in the centre of the apartment, and moving his white, taper fingers
over the pearl-tipped keys, waking now rich bursts of song, and, anon,
dwelling long on deep, solemn notes, that pierced the soul with
melancholy. He did not move when the door opened, and Edith crossed the
room and stood beside him ere he noticed her presence.
"Where is brother Rufus?" she asked, drawing on her tiny, lemon-colored
gloves.
The gentleman turned and gazed down upon the fair speaker. The clear
complexion and soft blue eyes of the daughter were exact counterparts of
the father's; so were the rich red lips and pearly teeth. Their only
point of difference was in the color of the hair. "What do you want of
Rufus?" asked he, in a tone almost stern, after he had gazed on her
several moments in silence. She turned her speaking eyes upon his face,
and answered, "Sylva said he would take me to church."
"To church!" said her father, now relaxing his features into a smile,
"what an odd fancy! And are you arrayed in this fine garb to attend
service in an old, dilapidated country church?"
"Do you think me very finely-dressed?" said Edith, archly, as she for a
moment surveyed herself in the large mirror which hung from ceiling to
floor between the eastern windows. She wore a crimson velvet dress and
mantle, a muff and tippet of white ermine, and a chapeau of light blue
satin, with a long, drooping white plume. Her hair was gathered into
luxuriant masses of curls each side of her sweet face, and confined by
sprays of pearls and turquoises.
Rufus now entered. He was very unlike his sister in personal appearance.
His hair was the color of his father's, but far less abundant, and
straight as an Indian's. Eyes and complexion were both dark, and his
countenance indicative of rather low intelligence, and weak intellectual
powers. The father looked on him as though he was not quite satisfied
with the son who was, probably, to perpetuate his name.
"Are you ready, Edith?" asked the youth.
"Yes," she returned. He approached to give her his arm, and, as they were
passing out, Edith caught her father looking grimly on them, and said
quickly, "Do you mind our going to church, papa? We will stay at home if
you wish."
"No, go along!" said he. "I'll not thwart you in so small a matter, and
hope I may never have occasion to in a greater!" Edith looked up in his
face as he uttered these last words. There was a dark shade flitting over
it. It haunted her all the while she was walking to church; but so many
things occupied her attention, after entering, it passed from her mind.
CHAPTER VII.
"I fain would know why woman is outraged,
And trampled in the very dust by man,
Who vaunts himself the lord of all the earth,
And e'en the mighty realms of sea and air."
Winter was passing away, and Wimbledon was making but slow progress
toward the better knowledge of the new family that had come among them.
The silver plate on the hall door announced the master's name as Col. J.
Corydon Malcome, a sounding appellation enough; and he was often seen
walking up and down the streets in his rich, fur-lined overcoat and laced
velvet cap, placed with a courtly air over his cloud of ebon curls. He
was known to be a widower, and the woful extravagancies into which Mary
Madeline Mumbles cajoled her doting mother, were enough to make one
shudder in relating. Wimbledon was ransacked for the gayest taffetas, the
jauntiest bonnets, and broadest Dutch lace, till, at length, poor Mr.
Salsify went to his wife with a doleful countenance, and told her he
could never "rise in his profession" as long as she upheld Madeline in
such whimsical extravagance. Mrs. Salsify looked lofty, and tossed her
carroty head; but her husband had waxed bold in his distress, and could
not be intimidated by ireful brows, or pursed-up lips. So he proceeded to
free his mind on this wise: "As for Mary Madeline's ever catching that
haughty, black-headed Col. Malcome, I know better; she can't do it, and I
would much rather have her marry Theophilus Shaw, who is a steady, modest
shoemaker. He makes good wages, and can maintain a wife comfortably, and
would treat her well; which is more than I would trust that
murderous-looking colonel to do."
"Well, you will have your own way, I suppose," said Mrs. S., putting on
an injured expression. "I see it is about as Mrs. Pimble and the
sisterhood tell me. Men are all a set of tyrants, and the women are their
slaves."
"Come, come, wife!" said Mr. Salsify, impatiently; "pray, don't get any
of those foolish notions in your head. Depend upon it, nothing could so
effectually put a stop to my 'rising in my profession.' The piazza and
second story could never be built, if you neglected your home affairs,
and went cantering about the country, like those evil-spirited women,
turning everything topsy-turvy, and mocking at all law and order; but I
know my wife has a mind too delicate and feminine to commit such bold,
masculine actions."
Mr. Mumbles had chosen the right weapon with which to combat his wife's
inclinations toward the Woman's Rights mania. A love of flattery was her
weak point. It is with half her sex. We too often say, by way of
expressing our disapproval of a certain man, "O, he is a gross
flatterer!" thus very frequently condemning the quality we most admire in
him;--or, if not the one we most admire, at least the one which affords
us most pleasure and gratification when in his society. But to our tale:
On a certain blustering January day, a sleigh, containing two ladies and
a gentleman, drove to the door of Col. Malcome's elegant mansion, and
were ushered into the spacious drawing-room by the blooming-visaged
housekeeper. Col. Malcome arose from the luxurious sofa on which he had
been reclining among a profusion of costly furs, and received his
visitors with an air of courtly magnificence, which might have had the
effect to intimidate a modest, retiring female; but not king Solomon in
all his glory could intimidate or abash Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, or
Mrs. Rebecca Potentia Lawson. As for poor, insignificant Peter Pimble, he
looked quite aghast with terror and astonishment at his own temerity in
penetrating to a presence so imposing and sublime, and cuddled away in
the most obscure corner he could find, while his majestic wife assumed a
velvet-cushioned arm-chair, which stood beside a marble table.
"Perhaps you do not know our names?" said Mrs. Pimble, bending a sharp
glance on Col. Malcome from beneath her shaggy brows.
"I certainly have not that pleasure, madam," answered the colonel, with a
graceful bow.
"I do not like that style of address," said Mrs. Lawson, arising from the
ottoman on which she had been sitting, with her broad, white palms
extended to the warmth of the glowing grate, and throwing her stately
form upon a crimson sofa; "it is a fawning, affected, puppyish manner,
which men assume when speaking to women, as if they were not capable of
understanding and appreciating a plain, common-sense mode of address."
"Ah, yes!" said Mrs. Pimble, "man has so long reigned a tyrant of
absolute sway, that centuries will pass, I fear, before he is dethroned,
and woman elevated to her proper stand among the nations of the earth."
Here she tossed her bonnet on the table, smoothed her bushy hair, and,
drawing a red bandanna from her pocket, gave her long nose a vigorous
rub, and settled herself in her soft chair again. Col. Malcome sat bolt
upright among the furs which were piled up around him, and stared at his
visitors. Yes, refined and polite though he was, he forgot his
good-breeding in surprise at the coarse, singular manners of his
involuntary guests. The figure in the extreme corner of the apartment at
length attracted his notice, and placing a chair in proximity to the
fire, he said, "Will you not be seated, sir?"
The muffled shape moved, but the brawny lady in the rocking-chair spoke,
and it was still again.
"O, Pimble can stand, Mr. Malcome," she said, "that's his name, and mine
is Mrs. Judith Justitia Pimble, author of tracts for the amelioration of
enslaved and down-trodden woman; and this is Mrs. Rebecca Potentia
Lawson, my sister and co-operater in the work of reform."
Col. Malcome bowed; but, recollecting the rebuff one brief remark of his
had received, remained silent.
"The object of our visit," said Mrs. Lawson, "is to see and confer with
the ladies of your household."
"Begging your pardon," said the colonel, "my family contains but one
lady."
"Ah, the one we met at the door, then?" remarked Mrs. Pimble.
"No, madam; that was my housekeeper," returned the colonel.
"Well, what do you call _her_?" asked Mrs. Lawson.
"My housekeeper, madam, as I have just informed you."
"She has no other name, I suppose?" said Mrs. Pimble, in a loud, ironical
tone; "she is to you a housekeeper, as a horse is a horse, or a cow a
cow;--not a woman"----
"O, yes! a woman, certainly," interrupted the colonel.
"A woman, but not a lady?" continued Mrs. Pimble.
The gentleman bowed as if he felt himself understood. "Well, sir," said
Mrs. Lawson, peering on him through her green glasses, "will you please
to inform us of the difference between a woman and a lady?"
Col. Malcome, who loved the satirical, had a mind to apply it here, but
his politeness restrained him, and he merely remarked, "In a general
sense, none: in a particular, very great."
"That is, in _your_ opinion," said Mrs. Pimble. "Now let me tell you
there is no difference, whatever. The wide world over, every woman is a
lady--(the colonel hemmed,)--every woman is a lady," repeated Mrs. P.,
"and every lady is a woman."
"That is, in _your_ opinion?" remarked Col. Malcome.
"In every sensible person's opinion."
"Well, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson, drawing forth a massive silver
watch, by a steel fob-chain; "we are wasting time. There's but an hour to
the lecture, and we have several miles to ride. Let us state the object
of our visit in a form suited to this man's comprehension."
The colonel felt rather small, on hearing this depreciation of his
intellectual powers, but said nothing.
"Well, make the statement, sister Potentia," said Mrs. Pimble, folding
her brawny arms over her capacious chest, and giving a loud, masculine
ahem.
"Mr. Malcome, we would like to see the female portion of your household,"
said Mrs. Lawson, in a slow, measured tone, with an emphasis on every
word.
As the colonel, indignant at the coarse vulgarity of the intruders, was
about to reply in the negative--the door opened, and Edith entered,
accompanied by Sylva, who led a small, white Spanish poodle by a silver
cord. The little animal capered gracefully about, cutting all sorts of
cunning antics, much to the amusement of the young girl, till at length
discovering the muffled shape of Pimble behind the door, he ran up to
him, smelt at his clothes, and commenced a furious barking.
"You had better go out doors, Pimble," said his wife; "you are so
contemptible a thing even insignificant curs yelp at your heels."
Mrs. Lawson laughed loudly at this witty speech, and the poor man was
about disappearing outside the door, when Col. Malcome prevented his exit
by bidding him be seated, and ordering Sylva to drive Fido from the room.
Quiet being restored, and Mr. Pimble having ventured to drop tremblingly
on the extreme edge of the chair offered for his comfort and convenience,
Col. Malcome said, "You wished to see the female portion of my
household:--here are two of them; my daughter and her attendant."
"Her attendant!" remarked Mrs. Lawson, "I do not know as I exactly
understand the signification of that term, as applied by you in the
present instance."
"Her waiting-woman, then," answered the colonel, "if that is a plainer
term."
"Ay, yes; her waiting-woman," resumed Mrs. L. "Well, your daughter looks
rather puny and sickly. She needs exercise in the open air, I should
say,--narrow-chested,--comes from a consumptive family on the mother's
side?"
"Madam," said Col. Malcome, with a sudden anger in his tone and manner,
"I don't know as it is any business of yours, from what family my
daughter comes."
"O, no particular business," continued Mrs. Lawson, with undisturbed
equanimity; "I only judged her to come of a consumptive race by her face
and form. Public speaking would be an excellent remedy for her weakly
appearance. That enlarges the lungs, and creates confidence and reliance
on one's own powers. Miss Malcome, would you not like to attend some of
our lectures and reform clubs?"
"I don't know," answered Edith, tremblingly. "I think I would if father
is willing;" and she turned her sweet blue eyes up to his face, as if to
read there her permission or refusal.
"A slave to parental authority, I see," remarked Mrs. Pimble; "but this
lady, grown to years of maturity; she, surely, should have a mind of her
own. Don't you think woman is made a galley-slave by the tyrant man?" she
demanded, turning her discourse on Sylva, who looked confused, as if she
did not quite understand the speech addressed to her. At length, she
asked timidly, "What woman do you refer to, madam?" "To all women upon
the face of the earth!" returned Mrs. Pimble, vehemently. "Are they not
loaded with chains and fetters, and crushed down in filthy mire and dirt
by self-inflated, tyrannizing man?"
"O, no!" answered Sylva, innocently; "no man ever put a chain on me, or
on any woman of my acquaintance, or ever pushed one down in the dirt."
"Poor fool!" exclaimed Mrs. Pimble, with great indignation; "you are
grovelling in the mire of ignorance, and man's foot is on your neck to
hold you there."
The figure that trembled on the edge of the chair was now heard calling
faintly, "Mrs. Pimble--Mrs. Pimble."
"Pimble speaks, sister Justitia," said Mrs. Lawson.
"What do you want?" asked the lady, turning sharply round.
"'Tis four o'clock, ma'am," gasped he.
"Four o'clock! didn't I tell you I wished to be at the lecture-room at
that hour?"
"I didn't like to interrupt you," he answered feebly.
"What a fool of a man!" exclaimed the enraged wife. "Bring the sleigh to
the door, instanter;" and Pimble rushed out, the ladies following close
on his heels, vociferating at the top of their voices, without even a
parting salutation to the family they had been visiting.
CHAPTER VIII.
"It is a hermit.
Well, methinks I've read
In romance tales of such strange beings oft;
But surely ne'er did think these eyes should see
The living, breathing, walking counterpart.
Canst tell me where he dwells?
Far in the woods,
In a lone hut, apart from all his kind."
OLD PLAY.
The pale moonbeams peeped through the rents and crevices of Dilly
Danforth's wretched abode, as the poor woman sat on the hearth with
Willie's head lying in her lap, while he read by the flickering
fire-light from the pages of a well-worn Bible. The little fellow had
never fully recovered from that long, painful illness that had nearly
cost him his life, and from which it is very possible he would never
have arisen but for those little bundles of firewood that were so
providentially laid on poor Dilly's threshold, by some charitable, though
unknown, hand. They still continued to be placed there, and it was well
they were so, for Mrs. Danforth's health had failed so much she was not
able to perform half her former amount of labor; and had it not been for
these small armfuls of fuel, which very much resembled those Willie used
to collect, the washerwoman and her boy must have perished during the
long, cold winter season. Yes, perished in the very midst of Wimbledon;
within a stone's throw of many a well-filled woodyard, and under the nose
of a Mrs. Pimble's philanthropic efforts for the amelioration of her
species. Dilly's neglect on the part of the many arose, not so much from
inhumanity and covetousness, as from a wrong bias, which a few words had
created in the people's minds. A report had passed through the village,
several months before, purporting to come from a reliable source, which
represented Mrs. Danforth as not so poor as she appeared; that she
assumed her poverty-stricken garb and appearance to excite sympathy, and
thus swindle, in a small way, from the purses of her wealthy neighbors.
There is nothing of which people have a greater horror than of being
humbugged, if they know it; so, for the most part, the Wimbledonians
turned a deaf ear and cold shoulder on the washerwoman's sorrowful
supplications for charity. Little Edith Malcome pitied the pale, sad face
that appeared at the kitchen door every Monday morning, and always asked
her father's permission to give her a basket of victuals to carry home,
which were always received with many grateful expressions by the poor
woman.
Edith sat by the drawing-room window, one bleak, stormy winter morning,
watching the snow as it fell silently to the earth, when a man of
singular appearance, walking slowly along the opposite side of the
street, attracted her notice.
"O, father!" exclaimed she quickly, "come here; the oddest-looking man is
going past."
Col. Malcome rose from his seat by the fire and approached the window.
"What a disgusting appearance he presents!" said he, gazing on the
slowly-receding figure. "It angers me to see a man degrade himself by
such uncouth apparel."
"O, not disgusting! is he, father?" said Edith, "only odd and droll; and
his face looked so pale and mild, I thought it really pretty. If he only
wouldn't wear that short-waisted, long-tailed coat, with those funny
little capes on the shoulders, and leave off that great tall-crowned hat
with its broad, slouching brim, and have a little cane instead of that
long pole he carries in his hand, he would be quite a pretty man,--don't
you think so, father?"
"Well, really I don't know how he might look were he thus transformed,"
answered Col. Malcome. "I only expressed my opinion of his present
appearance."
"Don't you know who he is?" asked Edith.
"No," said her father, returning to his seat.
"Well, I wish you would try and learn his name," pursued the fair girl.
"What for?" asked Col. M., resuming the perusal of the volume he had left
to obey her summons to the window.
"Because I would like to know it," returned she. "I fancy he is some
relation of that pale Dilly Danforth's, for he has just such mournful
eyes."
"I do not wish to see them then," said her father, with some impatience
of manner, "for I don't like the expression of that woman's eyes."
"They are very sad," said Edith, "but sorrow has made them so. I think
they were once very beautiful. But won't you learn this strange man's
name? Perhaps he is very poor, and we could alleviate his wants by kind
charities."
"No," answered Col. M. in a tone which dismissed the subject; "I cannot
run about the country to hunt up old stragglers for you to bestow alms
upon."
Edith looked on her father's stern brow, and, feeling it was useless to
urge her plea any longer, stole away to her own apartment, where she
found Sylva engaged in feeding her canaries and furnishing them with
fresh water. The little bright creatures were singing sweetly, but Edith
did not heed their songs. She stood apart by a window, and gazed out on
the falling snowflakes. At length she saw Rufus enter the yard, and soon
heard him ascending the stairs. "Where have you been, brother?" she
asked, as he came in, his face reddened by exposure to the cold, biting
atmosphere.
"Down on the river, skating with some of the village boys," answered he,
drawing a chair close to the glowing fire; "and O, such a fine time as we
had! I shall be glad when we go to school, Edith; it will be so much more
lively and pleasant."
"I shall be glad when the snow is gone, so I can run out doors, and sow
my flower-beds," returned Edith, thoughtfully. Then she sat gazing in the
fire a long time, as was always her wont when thinking deeply on any
subject. Sylva had finished her care of the birds, and brought forth Fido
from his little cot-bed in her room. He sprang into Edith's lap, then
into Rufus', kissing their cheeks and evincing his joy at beholding them
in various pleasing, expressive ways. But Edith pushed him away and told
Sylva to put him to bed again. So the brisk little fellow was carried
off, looking very sorry, and wailing piteously, as if he pleaded
permission to remain by the warm fire.
Rufus was younger than his sister, and of an intelligence and refinement
so far below hers, that she seldom evinced much pleasure or enjoyment in
his society, but she looked towards him now with an eager expression of
interest, as he said,
"O, Edith, I saw the funniest man this morning!"
"Where?" she asked quickly.
"Down by the side of the river among a clump of brushwood, gathering
little bundles of sticks. Charlie Seaton and I spoke to him, but he did
not answer us."
"Did he wear a long overcoat with small capes on the shoulders, and a
slouching-brimmed hat?" inquired Edith earnestly.
"Yes," said Rufus. "Have you seen him, then?"
"Passing along in the street," returned she. "Did Charlie know his name?"
"No; but he said it was a man who lived alone in a small hut, far off in
the forest, made of the boughs and branches of cedar trees, curiously
twisted together; and he is thence styled the _Hermit of the Cedars_."
"A hermit!" exclaimed Edith. "I have read of such beings in old books,
but I never supposed they really existed, or at least never expected I
should see one with my own eyes. I shall like this place better than
ever, now; it will be so romantic to have a hermit in our vicinity. What
do you suppose he was going to do with his bundles of sticks, Rufus?"
"Use them for firewood, probably," said he.
"But I should have thought he might have obtained that in the forest
where he lives, and not been obliged to travel all the way down here,
this stormy day, to pick up wood from among the snow, and then carry it
two or three miles in his arms," said Edith, in a ruminating tone.
"O, hermits are strange beings, sis!" answered Rufus, whistling a vacant
tune as he stood before the window gazing forth on the dismal storm which
debarred him from his accustomed diversion of skating on the frozen
surface of the river.
While his children were occupied with the preceding conversation, Col.
Malcome had donned his fur-lined overcoat and stepped across the yard to
Deacon Allen's cottage. The good people were quite embarrassed to behold
so smart a visitor in their unostentatious little parlor, but the
colonel, by his gentlemanly grace, soon placed them at their ease. After
a few moments' conversation on general topics, he asked, casually enough,
who was the owner of the fine mansion he had noticed in his rambles about
town, with the appellation "Summer Home" sculptured on its marble
gateway?
"O, that is Major Tom Howard's!" answered Deacon Allen. "His family have
made it their abode for six or eight months every season since they owned
it; and I understand, after their next return, it is to become their
permanent residence."
"'Tis a delightful location," remarked Colonel M.; "a very large mansion.
Has Mr. Howard a family corresponding with its dimensions?"
"O, no, only a wife and one child--a beautiful girl."
"How old is his daughter?" inquired the colonel.
"Well, about fourteen I should say; but seems much older from her matured
growth and manners."
"Has Mr. Howard no sister living with him?" asked the visitor,
carelessly.
"No," answered the deacon.
"And has he not lost one?"
"Not since he came among us; though his wife, I have understood, always
dresses in black. She is a confirmed invalid and seldom seen."
"Then the family do not mingle much in society?" said the colonel.
The deacon shook his head.
"Somewhat aristocratic, probably," remarked the visitor.
"I should judge so," said the deacon. "They don't send Florence to
school, but keep three tutors for her at home. She is very accomplished,
but rather wilful and proud, they say."
"The effect of over-indulgence, perhaps," said the colonel, rising.
"Will you not honor us with another call?" asked Mrs. Allen.
"With pleasure," answered he, bowing a graceful good-morning to his
delighted entertainers.
CHAPTER IX.
"A vestal priestess, proudly pure
But of a meek and quiet spirit;
With soul all dauntless to endure
And mood so calm that naught can stir it,
Save when a thought most deeply thrilling
Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling,
Which seem with her true words to start
From the deep fountain of her heart."
The fine parlors of Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful mansion were brilliantly
illuminated. Warm fires glowed in the shining marble grates. Dim argand
lamps bathed in soft light the rich furniture, carved cornices, and rare
statuary which decorated the mantels. The élite of Wimbledon were
assembling, and young Mrs. Edson moved lightly to and fro, receiving her
numerous guests with graceful self-possession, and welcoming them to her
home and heart with warm, earnest cordiality. They were nearly all
strangers to her, as she had been but a few months installed mistress of
Mr. Edson's splendid mansion; but she felt they were the people among
whom she was henceforth to live and find her associates and friends. She
had made one call, only, since her arrival in Wimbledon, and that on Col.
Malcome's family, who were later comers than herself.
Louise Edson was graceful, brilliant, beautiful. O, what a wealth of
thought and intellect was hers; what a broad, generous nature; what
lightning-like perceptions, quick, far-seeing judgment, sparkling humor
and sarcastic wit! She floated in a sea of exuberant life and beauty,
which was fed continually from the exhaustless fountains of her own
thought-wealthy soul. Her calm, clear eyes mirrored the bright fancies
that flitted through her brain. The chestnut hair, brushed away from the
youthful brow, revealed the tiny blue veins on the white expanding
temples; while the high, straight nose and curved nostrils, with the
sweet little mouth and tapering chin that smiled below, made up a face
whose regular features were its least claim to beauty. It was the soul
within which shone over these features and lighted them at times with
supernatural loveliness. And was this brilliant being understood and
appreciated by the man who had won her for his bride? Faugh!--we blush at
our own stupidity in asking the question. Are such lofty souls ever
appreciated by even one of the swarming masses that people the earth with
their corporeal bodies? Let those answer who can.
But Louise, soaring as was her nature, was yet cursed with that weakness
which too often possesses souls like hers, swaying e'en a more tyrant
sceptre than in meaner breasts, as though in envious hate of those
sky-aspiring pinions, and a demon wish to make them lick the dust. She
was an orphan, with no relative save a maiden aunt, with whom she dwelt.
She felt alone in the wide world, and she wanted--O, pity her, reader, if
you can!--she wanted somebody to lean on, somebody to look up to. Could
she not lean on her own strong intellect, and look up to the stars?--or
could she not breathe forth her rich-laden soul in lofty song and
romance, and lean upon the pillars of a world-wide fame? No, O, no! With
all her strength of soul and intellect, she had weak woman's heart. She
must love and be loved; and when the wealthy Mr. Leroy Edson knelt, an
enamored knight, at the shrine of her youth and beauty, she gave him her
hand. He thought he had done a most generous deed in thus raising a poor,
lone orphan girl from comparative obscurity to a position among the
highest circles of society. Her superior education and gem-freighted soul
were all the fortune she brought him; a fortune greater than the
treasures of Ind., but of whose princely value he had not the power to
form the most distant estimate. To behold her tall, graceful figure
flitting through his elegant mansion, performing some light household
duty, receiving her guests or chatting and singing gayly through the long
evenings, was, to him, life's whole of happiness. And was Louise
altogether content with the man of her choice? No, or she had not
gathered Wimbledon about her to make merry the midnight hour. People do
not give fêtes to display their happiness. They give them too often to
relieve a tedious monotony, to silence a gnawing discontent, and forget
for the moment in hilarious excitement some uneasy foreboding of evil to
come, or disquieting conviction that all, even now, is not as it should
be.
Louise had not been many weeks Mrs. Edson, before she discovered the man
she had taken for "better or worse" till death should separate them, was
no helpmeet for her. They had not a thought or sympathy in common. He
hired servants to execute her commands; bought her fine clothes, and fine
books too, when he found these latter most delighted her; but he never
wished to hear her read from them, and invariably yawned if she spoke of
literary subjects. He was good-natured and fond of display, with a fair
estimate of his own importance and standing in society. He regarded
himself as one of the pillars of Wimbledon's wealth and
prosperity;--remove him, and the whole structure would tremble and
perhaps go down with a crash to rise no more. It took but a brief time
for Louise to read her husband's soul through and through; and with her
sharp, critical nature, that could not understand and would not overlook
faults and follies to which her bosom was a stranger, she decided she had
_married a fool_. What was to be done? The act was voluntary on her
part. True, a longer acquaintance between the parties might have led to
a different result, but it was too late to think of that now. And this
was the end of all her heart-longings for some one to love and
reverence, to lean on and look up to! O, how intense was her agony! All
her fine feelings wasted, her soul's wealth poured idly forth, and her
rich life in its blooming years given to one who could not understand
one of her lofty dreams or soaring aspirations. A falcon with sun-daring
eyes tied to a grovelling buzzard! Was't not a hard fate, reader? Pity
her, all ye who can,--pity her a great deal; mourn over her cruel wreck
of happiness; and if in future years the warm, impassioned nature,
goaded by its own unuttered pangs, driven wild by its rayless, hopeless
desolation, is guilty of some irregularities, some acts which virtue and
propriety can hardly sanction, O, remember her early sufferings, and be
merciful!
Mr. Edson's party passed off pleasantly. All seemed delighted with their
entertainment. The lord of the mansion was in great good-humor, and his
beautiful wife the star of the evening. In a simple robe of dark blue
cashmere, which fastened low over her white, sloping shoulders, and
fitted closely her slender waist, while the ample folds swept the rich
tapestry carpets, she moved among her guests like the embodiment of a
graceful thought. Her luxuriant brown hair was gathered in bands at the
back of her head; a massive chain and cross of gold ornamented her
swan-like neck, and bands of the same material clasped her round, white
arms. Small wonder that Mr. Edson should feel proud of his wife. The
whole evening she was the centre of a delighted group. All flocked around
to hear her brilliant conversation and gaze on her animated, expressive
features. Col. Malcome and the gentle Edith engaged a large share of her
attention and regard. The young girl was insensibly attracted by the
affectionate interest evinced in her manner, and the sweet voice and
beaming smile with which she addressed her. Col. Malcome expressed his
admiration of the exquisite taste displayed in the furnishing of her
parlors.
"I cannot tell you, Mrs. Edson," said he, "what I most admire in your
elegant drawing-rooms. They are one harmonious whole; but if you were
removed, I think I would very soon discover what was wanting to render
them complete."
"Now," said Louise, "let me tell you at the commencement of our
acquaintance, which I hope for my humble sake may continue to be
cultivated, that I detest flattery of all things;" and she turned a
smiling glance on him, as these piquant words fell from her pretty, red
lips, rendered more than usually charming by the slight sarcastic curl
she gave them.
"So do I," returned he; "but truth is not flattery."
"In the language of the poet," said she, laughing, "I will not seek to
cope with you in compliment. Do you know I feel a lively interest in your
beautiful daughter?"
"I am gratified to know it," said he, glancing on the bright creature at
his side with an expressive glance. "Edith is a timid little thing; she
would improve under your accomplished tuition. Not that I have the
presumption to ask for her your care and instructions beyond what she
might receive by a neighborly interchange of visits."
"O, say she may spend a portion of every week with me, when spring opens
and the earth is divested of its garb of snow!" said Louise, in a tone of
affectionate eagerness. "You cannot tell how her innocent gayety would
lighten many of my weary hours."
Col. Malcome started as he heard these words, and turned a searching
glance upon her. A slight blush suffused her cheek for a moment, but she
soon regained her self-possession. It was one of her faults to give too
free, unrestrained expression to her thoughts. They came welling up to
her lips, and escaped ere she was aware.
For several moments he continued to gaze on her, and there was something
in his countenance that instantly revealed to her quick eye that he had
not only believed in the weariness she had so thoughtlessly expressed,
but had also fathomed its cause. She felt displeased and irritated at her
own want of caution and what she silently termed his presumption.
"Why do you look on me so strangely?" she asked at length.
"I beg your pardon, madam," said he, suddenly averting his gaze.
"Which I shall not give," returned she, with a slight, dignified movement
of her queenly head, "unless you tell me what you think of me."
"_All_ I think of you, Mrs. Edson," said he, turning his face again
toward hers, "perhaps would not please you to know."
"Yes, all," said Louise, "I will know all."
"Well, this is not the time or place for the disclosure," answered he.
She looked at him sharply as he pronounced these words. He smiled and
added, "I should be monopolizing the time which belongs to your company."
"Ay, yes!" said she, "your words recall the duty I owe to my
condescending guests;" and, bowing, she glided away and joined a company
that surrounded the piano.
"You play, of course, Mrs. Edson," said a portly man with a benevolent
countenance.
"Occasionally, though I have rather a dull ear," she answered, assuming
the music-stool. Several light songs were performed with fine taste and
skill, and received the warmest encomiums of her listeners. Another and
another was called for, till at length she arose and said, "There are
doubtless others here who play far better than myself. I have led the
way, let them follow."
Col. Malcome arose from a sofa near by, on which he had thrown himself to
listen to the fair musician, and assumed the seat she had vacated. A few
prolonged notes, and then one of the most beautiful and intricate
compositions of Beethoven, poured its sonorous strains on the ears of the
assembly. The performer at length seemed to forget all around him, and at
the end of the second chorus joined his own deep, rich tones with the
instrument. All were delighted; but Louise, with her quick sensibilities,
was thrilled to the centre of her soul. And she felt piqued and angry
too; not that he had excelled her, for she was above such small envy,
but----she could not tell why.
The party dispersed, and she found herself again in the solitude of her
own apartment. That swelling chorus rolled through her midnight dreams,
and echoed in her ears for many a day, as she superintended her domestic
affairs, or sat down to the perusal of some treasured volume.
CHAPTER X.
"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,
To get a daughter married off your hands,
And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;
For many men there be in this rude world.
Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;
But of their number is not this mild youth
Who takes our daughter for his wedded bride."
Young Mrs. Edson's party was a three days' wonder. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles,
inasmuch as she was excluded from being one of the guests, availed
herself of the next choicest privilege, and learned, as far as she was
able, the dresses and conversation of those in attendance; and how Mrs.
E. comported herself, and what she cooked for supper. She was shocked to
learn the young wife wore a low-necked dress, and set her down at once as
a low, vulgar woman, in whose company she should consider it a disgrace
to be seen. Mrs. Pimble said another milk-sop had come among them to fawn
and giggle in the face of the oppressor, man.
The Edson fête seemed to pave the way for others, and the winter season
passed gayly and pleasantly among the wealthier classes of Wimbledon.
Col. Malcome, his daughter, and Rufus, were present at all the social
gatherings; and, in fact, the colonel's was getting to be a familiar and
welcome face at almost every door in the village. He even called on Mrs.
Salsify Mumbles, one day, and addressed several civil speeches to the
interesting Mary Madeline, who blushed crimson beneath the glance of his
_unresistible_ eyes, as she termed them, and trembled like an aspen, in
her red silk gown. We do not know that we have ever spoken of the
personal charms of this blooming young lady, and we will now attempt a
brief daguerreotype for the reader's enlightenment and edification.
Her hair was of that peculiarly brilliant color noticed in that
delightful esculent vegetable, the carrot, when boiled and prepared for
table. She wore it twisted in a hard, horny knob at the top of her head,
which strained her blue-green eyes, and gave them the expression of those
of a choked grimalkin. Her nose turned divinely upwards; her blubber lips
turned downwards with a grievous, watery expression. Her cheeks were red;
so was her nose; so were her eyes at times, when the horny knob took a
harder twist than usual. She had small, hairy ears, ornamented with
enormous jewels. Her neck was short, and three stubborn warts, of the
size of peas, stuck to its left side. Her waist might have been admired
in the fifteenth century; but it was some nine inches too short by as
many too broad, to elicit the admiration of the gallants of the present
age, who rave, and go distracted about gossamer divinities scarcely six
inches in circumference. She was about four feet four in stature, and her
foot would have crushed Cinderella, and used her slipper for a thumb-cot.
Such was Mary Madeline Mumbles in her eighteenth year, and never was
child more like parent, than was this young lady like her doting,
affectionate mamma.
We have been at considerable trouble to sketch Miss Mumbles at full
length, that the reader may be able to form a correct idea of her
appearance when she steps forth in full glory of silken bridal attire, on
the arm of Mr. Theophilus Shaw, the promising young shoe-cobbler, upon
whom Mr. Salsify had long since set his heart, as the proper man to
become his future son-in-law. And Miss Mary, who lost her passion for
Dick Giblet, after he shut the watch-dog in the kitchen-pantry,--a trick
which had nearly cost her the loss of a beloved mother,--and finding she
could not captivate the handsome Colonel Malcome with checkered aprons
and broad lace, began, like a dutiful child, to receive the advances of
the mild Theophilus more graciously, and had, after much maidenly
confusion, consented to become his wife, when, as we have seen, the
uncompromising colonel called, and distracted her with fear lest she had
been too precipitate in accepting Theophilus, when a higher prize might
be on the point of falling into her arms. But her apprehensions were
banished after a while, as the colonel did not appear a second time, and
the marriage was finally consummated; and Mary Madeline Mumbles became in
due form Mrs. Theophilus Shaw. Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton officiated as
bridesmaids, and a large party were invited to make merry on the
occasion.
The bride's apparel was magnificent; so was the bridegroom's. We would
attempt to describe it in detail, but dare not, knowing well we should
fail to do it justice. Mrs. Salsify had the wicks of her parlor lamps
full half an inch in length, and never seemed to notice how swiftly the
camphene was disappearing, so elate was she with the prospect of marrying
her beautiful daughter.
The happy couple were to make a short bridal excursion, and then return
and dwell under the bride's parental roof for the present; Mrs. Salsify
having vacated her bed-room, which the young people were going to use for
kitchen, parlor, and shoemaker's shop. And a little pasteboard sign with
the words, "Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," scrawled on it with
lampblack, in an awkward, school-boy hand, was suspended by a string from
the bed-room window.
"I am glad to have Mary Madeline settled in life," said Mrs. Mumbles,
after the arrangements were all complete; "and the matter off my mind."
"So am I," answered her husband; "and I am glad she has made so good a
match, too. Mr. Shaw will make a much better husband than Dick Giblet, or
that black-headed Col. Malcome."
"O, a better one than that scapegrace of a Dick, of course!" said Mrs.
Salsify, quickly; "but as to a better one than the colonel, I don't know
about that. The advantages of his position are very great. Maddie would
have been the tip-top of Wimbledon if she had married him."
"So she will be now, in time," returned Mr. S., confidently, "for I am
'rising rapidly in my profession.' Next summer I shall build the piazza
and second story, and in ten years I'd like to see the man that can hold
his head above Mr. Salsify Mumbles."
At these hopeful words, the wife fondly embraced her husband, and the
loving couple fell to forming plans and projects for their brilliant
future.
CHAPTER XI.
And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,--
Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,
But disappointment blasted all his hopes,
And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.
Cold and bleak roared the fierce wintry blasts through the broad, dense
forest that stretched away to the north of Wimbledon. The stars sparkled
with unwonted brilliancy over the clear blue firmament, as a quick step
crackled along the narrow, icy path, and a dark form was seen hurrying
toward a faint light that gleamed dimly through a dense clump of cedars.
Then there was a sound as of bars withdrawn, and a bright, blazing hearth
was revealed for a moment as the dark form entered, when all was hushed
and silent again, save the dismal roar of the night wind through the
surrounding pines.
"You are late to-night, uncle," said a tall, dark-haired youth, as he
undid the fastenings of the wanderer's long overcoat, and removed his
woollen mittens and wide-brimmed hat.
"What time do you conceive it to be?" asked the man, depositing his long
staff in a corner, and approaching the glowing fire.
"Past midnight, I would suppose," answered the boy, piling up a quantity
of books that were scattered over a small table, and with which he had
been occupying himself through the long evening hours.
"O, not so late as that!" returned the man, drawing a rude chair before
the fire and extending his small, thin hands to the grateful blaze. "The
village clock in the old church tower at Wimbledon was on the stroke of
ten when I laid my bundle of sticks in their accustomed place, and set my
face homewards. I must have travelled at a laggard pace, if it is already
midnight. Are you lonesome when I'm away, Edgar?" inquired he, turning
his deep, melancholy eyes on the fair, open countenance of the youth.
"Sometimes I am," returned he; "I have been so to-night. A strange power
seemed to possess my thoughts, to lead them through most hideous scenes,
and dark, awful glooms and shadows enveloped my soul in mazes of doubt
and fear."
"What a nervous boy you are!" said the man, "come and sit beside me, and
I'll tell you of a project I've been revolving in my mind these several
days." Edgar did as requested, and after a brief silence the hermit
commenced:
"These six months, my lad, you have dwelt in this little hut in the
forest, holding intercourse with no human being save myself. It is not
right your boyhood and youth should pass in this manner. I have been
selfish in keeping you all to myself, to cheer my solitude. 'Twas your
parents' dying wish that you should receive all the advantages of
education and travel. Your life has been, for the most part, spent in the
toil of study, and I knew you needed an interval of relaxation and
retirement to reïnvigorate your mental and physical energies. So I
brought you to share the seclusion of my hermitage for a while. Grateful
as has been your presence to me, I should wrong you, and forfeit the
promise given your parents on their deathbeds, if I encouraged or
permitted this retirement for a longer period than is necessary for your
restoration to health and vigor. You know I am your guardian, Edgar. The
fortune left for you by your father was entrusted to my care till you
should attain a suitable age to have it transferred to your own hands,
and ample provisions were made for your education and instruction in the
painter's art. Do you see what I am coming at, Edgar?" he added, pausing
in his discourse, and directing his gaze toward the boy, who sat
listening attentively to his uncle's words.
"No, Uncle Ralph," answered the lad; "I don't know as I do, unless you
are going to send me away from you to some distant school;" and his voice
trembled as he spoke.
"Would you dislike to leave me, my boy?" said the hermit, a tear dropping
from his melancholy eye.
"Ah, that would I!" returned Edgar, "for I have none to care for me in
the wide world, save you."
"Pshaw, pshaw, boy! don't prate in that way, with your bright, curly
locks," said the man, laying his thin hand softly on the youth's light,
clustering hair. "When these locks are gray, and you have toiled and
labored for fame and honors never gained, or that burned and furrowed the
brow that wore them; when you have engaged in the world's weary strife
and sunk by the wayside worn and disheartened by the contest; when
friends have proved false;"--here the hermit's voice grew deeper and more
vehement--"and when those who professed for you the fondest love turn
coldly away to mock and scorn at your deep devotion, then, then, my boy,
you will exclaim in bitterness, 'there are none to care for me!'"
He paused, and bowed his face on his hands. Edgar longed to comfort him,
but knew not what to say.
The night wind roared solemnly without, the fire burned low on the rude
hearth, and the little apartment, but illy protected from the searching
blasts, grew chilly. Still the hermit sat silent, his bowed head resting
between his small, attenuated hands. Edgar rose, brought the long
overcoat and spread it over his shoulders, as a protection from the
increasing cold. Then wrapping a blanket around his own light form, he
stole softly to the window, and turned his gaze upward to the
star-lighted heaven. He dearly loved to sit thus through the hushed
midnight hours, and listen to the deep, heavy roaring of the mighty
winds, as they swept through the surrounding forest, while his soul
seemed borne away on their rushing currents, up and upward till her
pinions brushed the starry palaces of angels and beatified spirits; and
on, and on, with new splendors ever bursting on her ravished vision, till
the elysium of light in the high heaven of heavens poured its bewildering
glories upon her, and her weary wings fluttered to rest at last upon the
bosom of the All-Holy.
Edgar was possessed of a temperament of the most imaginative order,
deeply imbued with lofty, poetic sentiment, and a tendency to reserve and
melancholy. His father had been an artist, and the sunny skies of Italy
cast their bright glory over his tender years, warming to impassioned
ardor the springs and fountains of his youthful bosom. Very few boys of
his age and acquirements could have endured the seclusion in which he had
dwelt for the last six months; but nothing could have been more consonant
with the reserved, romantic disposition of Edgar; and the prospect of
leaving the wild hut in the forest to go forth among the wide world's
jostling crowds, caused him heart-throbbing pangs.
After a long silence the hermit roused himself. The room was cold and
dark.
"Edgar?" said he, in a low, broken voice.
"I am here," answered the youth, rising, and feeling his way through the
darkness to his uncle's side, "Won't you lie down now? The room is so
cold, and there is no wood within to replenish the fire."
"Yes, my boy, I will lie down," said the hermit, "but not to sleep; the
ghosts of past joys are with me to-night."
"Drive them away, uncle!" said the lad soothingly. "I am not disposed to
sleep either. Let us lie down and cover us warm, and then you tell me of
your plans and projects for my future, as you had commenced to do a few
hours ago."
"No, Edgar, not to-night," answered the recluse. "Your young eyes will
wax heavy with these midnight vigils. You must sleep, my boy, and
to-morrow I will communicate my plans concerning you."
"As you say, uncle," returned Edgar, preparing to lie down.
Young, and happily ignorant of the cares and sorrows that distract the
bosoms of maturer years, he was soon asleep.
The hermit moved to the window, and, after gazing forth some time in
silence, murmured, "Wild, wild is the night! Heaven send she does not
suffer. I left two bundles on her lonely sill, though my fingers grew
stiff with cold ere I had gathered them. Thus do I feebly endeavor to
atone for past misconduct. How the wind roars through the pines! O, what
memories of long ago rush o'er my soul! I think of Mary as the time
approaches when she will be near me. Shall I see her face again? God
forbid!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot violently upon the stone floor.
After a while he resumed his low soliloquy. "I fear for Edgar," he said,
"lest the cold world chill his heart and undo his usefulness, as it has
mine. He has my temperament, reserved, sensitive, and with the same
accursed capacity for strong, undying attachment. What a fair prospect of
fame had I! What honors were ready to crown me when that monster came and
blasted them all! Such do I fear will be Edgar's fate. But he must go
forth into the world; such was the wish of his parents. I can keep him
near me a few months longer by sending him to the Wimbledon seminary, ere
he must depart for some distant university or school of art. Then the
great world will have opened before him, and I shall see him no more."
The hermit suddenly ceased. Tears choked his utterance.
"Uncle!" said Edgar, starting quickly from his slumbers, "will you not
come and lie down?"
"Yes, my boy," answered the sorrowing man, approaching the rude couch.
The wintry winds wailed on with piteous, mournful voices; but the
_Hermit of the Cedars_ slept at last,
"A troubled, dreamy sleep."
CHAPTER XII.
"Lawyers and doctors at your service.
We are better off
Without them.
True, you are,--but still
You follow on their heels, and fawn,
And flatter in their faces. If you
Would leave your brawls and fights which
Call for physic, very soon you'd be
Beyond their greedy clutches."
OLD PLAY.
Reader, do you wonder where's the doctor whose saddle-bags may be
supposed to contain the divers specifics for the "ills" which the "flesh"
of Wimbledon is liable to become heir to? He doth exist, and, when
occasion calls, we'll trot him forth.
And do you say this same Wimbledon has never a lawyer within its
precincts,--and whoever heard of a village of several hundred inhabitants
without at least half-a-dozen of these learned disciples of Blackstone to
settle its wrongs and right its abuses?
Permit us to inform you, friend, that we consider lawyers dangerous
animals; and the less men and women have to do with them, the better!
Nevertheless, there is one o' the craft in Wimbledon; and, if you had not
been blind as a bat, you would have discovered, ere this, the sign of
"Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., Attorney-at-Law," hung over the door of a
small, black building in Mudget square. True, Mr. Pimble don't practise
his profession much, for a very good reason; nobody is in want of his
services; and that's the case with two thirds of the lawyers in
Christendom.
Mrs. Pimble has converted her husband's office into a committee-room, and
receptacle for hoards of pamphlets and papers, containing the proceedings
of divers conventions held for the advancement of the cause of "Woman's
Rights, and promulgation of Universal Freedom and Philanthropy."
Mrs. Pimble, the ardent reformist, is at present detained from her labors
by the illness of her eldest son, Garrison. She has sent for the young
female physician, Dr. Sarah Simcoe; but the word is, "pressing business
detains that medical functionary at home,"--so, in direct violation of
her established principles, she has been compelled to send for old Dr.
Potipher, who considers himself, par excellence, the Esculapius of
Wimbledon.
But Peggy Nonce comes blowing back from her hasty errand, and says the
doctor is down to Mr. Moses Simcoe's. Mrs. Pimble wonders what should
take a vile male practitioner to the house of an accomplished
lady-physician. Peggy looks wise, as much as to say she could explain the
mystery if she chose. But no one asks her to speak, so she goes into the
kitchen, where Mr. Pimble sits in his dressing-gown and sheepskin
slippers, shivering over an expiring fire. He lifts his head, as the
bustling housekeeper begins to rattle the covers of the stove for the
purpose of putting in some more wood, and asks feebly if "Dr. Potipher
has arrived."
"No," answers Peggy. "He is down to Mr. Simcoe's."
"Who is sick there?" inquires Mr. Pimble.
"His wife."
"Why, she is a doctor herself! Can't she cure her own ailments?" says Mr.
Pimble.
"Not always, I reckon," is Peggy's reply, while she is evidently vastly
amused by something she does not choose to communicate at present.
Beside the bed of her sick boy stood Mrs. Pimble. She laid her hand on
his forehead. It burned with fever, and his pulse was quick and hard. She
was not much skilled in the "art medical," but she resolved to do
_something_ for her child, and forthwith proceeded to the kitchen and
compounded a dish of catnip leaves and ginger. It exhaled a savory
smell, and she felt quite confident it would cool off Garrison's fever.
Placing a large bowl of the liquid by his bed-side, she bade him drink
freely of it through the evening, while she was gone to the Reform Club,
and when she came home she would call at Sister Simcoe's and obtain a
prescription for him. The sick lad promised to do as she requested. His
fever inclined him to drink incessantly, and ere his mother was ten
yards from the house, he had guzzled the whole brimming bowlful. And
still he called for drink, drink; which his insensate father carried to
him in copious quantities as often as he desired it.
Mrs. Pimble proceeded on her way to the club room. For some reason there
was but a thin attendance. None of the prominent members were present,
and the little company decided to adjourn. Mrs. Pimble hurried round to
Mrs. Simcoe's, to learn the cause of her absence and get the prescription
for Garrison. The lady-doctor had been lecturing for several months in
different towns of the county, and was but recently returned.
Mrs. Pimble entered without knocking, as was her wont, and walked into
the young doctor's office, where she beheld, not the fair, feminine face
of the rightful proprietor, but the ugly, rhubarb-colored visage of the
village apothecary, Dr. Potipher, ensconced in the high-backed cushioned
chair, fast asleep.
She turned back and opened the sitting-room door, and there stood Mr.
Simcoe before a bed, holding a tea-tray, containing several vials and
glasses. Mrs. Pimble started on seeing the night-capped head of Mrs.
Simcoe raised feebly from the pillow, and darting forward, exclaimed,
"Mercy, Sister Simcoe! what has befallen you?"
A smothered wail from beneath the bed-clothes now met her ear, and,
turning down the blankets, she discovered two red-faced, bald-headed
babies, wrapped in swaddling-clothes. She started back aghast.
"What are those things--what are those things?" she demanded,
hysterically, pointing to the infant strangers.
"Simcoe's children!" groaned the pale lady-doctor, turning uneasily away
from the little things that lay squirming and making such grimaces, as
only very young babies _can_ make, in the face of Mrs. Pimble. The
alleged father stood there, chuckling over the smartness of his progeny.
Mrs. Pimble darted one withering glance upon him, and walked away
without another word. She roused old Dr. Potipher, and took him home
with her. Well she did so, for Garrison was much worse than when she
left him, and the doctor pronounced it a case of brain fever, which
would require the nicest care and nursing.
Thus a wet blanket was most audaciously thrown upon the Woman's Rights'
Reform, which was fain to arrest its progress in Wimbledon for a while.
We shall see how long.
CHAPTER XIII.
"Thy hands are filled with early flowers,
Thy step is on the wind;
The innocent and keen delight
Of youth is on thy mind;
That glad fresh feeling that bestows
Itself the gladness which it knows,
The pure, the undefined;
And thou art in that happy hour
Of feeling's uncurbed, early power."
The spring dawned bright and beautiful over Wimbledon, and when the first
blue-birds sang on the budding boughs, and the grass was springing green
in streets and by-ways, the tenants of "Summer Home" returned; and a
bright young girl, with dark abundant hair hanging in a rich profusion of
shiny ringlets over her white, uncovered shoulders, was seen skipping
lightly through the gardens and grounds, pruning shrubs, transplanting
flowers, and training truant vines over arbors and alcoves.
It was Florence Howard, resplendent in the light of her girlish beauty,
and buoyant overflow of health and happiness. Often, in her morning
strolls, she noticed a tall, graceful boy, in a blue frock-coat, with a
shining morocco cap placed over a head of light curly hair, passing
along, satchel in hand, to the seminary on the hill, and every night she
saw him disappear within the forest that lay to the northward of her
father's residence.
She wondered what became of him, for the woods were wide and deep, and it
must be a long way to the other side. There surely could be no habitation
within their precincts, and Florence's curiosity was strongly excited to
fathom the mystery, which in her eyes surrounded the fair-haired youth.
"Father," said she one evening, as she sat beside him on the western
terrace, "I don't like being confined herewith these stupid tutors. I
wish you would let me go to school at the seminary."
"Your advantages at home are far superior, my daughter," answered her
father.
"O, but I should like the air and exercise, and the company of children
of my own age so much," pursued she, poking her little fingers through
her father's silvered locks, and leaning up against his side in a very
coaxing attitude. "I shall become the saddest mope in the world if I am
cooped up here."
"I apprehend small danger of that," returned her father, laughing, "for
you have appeared to me, since our last return, a wilder romp than ever
before."
"O, that's only because I'm so glad to get to this delightful place
again, and to know we are to go away no more!" said she. "It will wear
off after a while, and I shall become silent and solemn as a nun. Won't
you let me go to the seminary just one term? I can still take my music
lessons of Mrs. Sayles here at home, and I know my French and Italian
masters would like a respite from their duties." She stood looking
earnestly in her father's face.
"You smooth the way very well, my little daughter," said he, patting her
rosy cheek; "but I incline to think you had better continue your studies
in the old way."
Florence looked disappointed, and turned slowly from his side. Her
dejected appearance touched his affectionate heart, and he called her
back. She came bounding toward him, with new hope dancing in her dark
liquid eyes.
"If you can obtain your mother's consent," said he, "I will not object to
your attending school at the seminary one term, as you seem so much to
desire it."
"O, thank you, thank you, dear father!" exclaimed the glad girl, putting
her arms round his neck, and giving him a grateful kiss on either cheek,
"and may I commence to-morrow? that is, if mamma consents to my going?"
"To-morrow?" said he, "had you not better wait, as this term is so far
advanced, and commence with a new one?"
"O, no!" returned she, "I should rather begin at once."
"Well, go in, little Miss Rattle, and see what your sage mamma says on
the subject," said her father, smiling at her earnest countenance.
Away went Florence, with the lightness of a bird up the hall stairs, and,
giving a light tap at a closed door, stood dancing softly on tip-toe, as
she waited a summons to enter. "Who's there?" asked a low, trembling
voice at length.
"Me, mamma," answered Florence; "may I come in? I've something to ask
you."
The door was opened by a short, thin woman, of dark complexion, small
peering black eyes, and slick, shining hair of the same hue, which was
arranged with an air of nicety and precision.
Florence entered and glanced with an expression of alarm toward the drawn
curtains of a mahogany bedstead. "Is mother worse?" she asked in a voice
but a breath above a whisper.
"She has had one of her bleeding spells," answered the small, dark woman.
"Where is your father?"
"On the lower terrace; shall I call him?"
"No, I will go to him," returned the woman, "if you will remain by your
mother a while."
"O, yes, I shall be delighted to stay!" said Florence, approaching the
couch.
"You must not talk to her," remarked the woman; "she needs to be very
quiet."
"I won't speak a word unless she asks me to," answered the young girl,
sitting down by the bed-side, as the dark woman disappeared, closing the
door softly behind her.
After a few moments' silence the sick woman stirred and parted the
curtains slightly with her wan hand. Florence rose. "Do you want
anything, mother?" she asked.
"No, my dear, I have been asleep. Where is Hannah?"
"Gone below. I think to send father for Dr. Potipher."
"I hope not," said the invalid; "it is not necessary. This is only one of
my common attacks. I shall be as well as usual in a few days."
"Do you think so, mother?" asked Florence, brightening. "I feared you
were very ill. I had something particular to say, but I was not going to
say it, for fear of hurting you."
"What is it, dear?" inquired the mother.
"Something papa and I have been talking about down on the piazza
to-night."
"Well," said the sick woman, looking affectionately on the earnest
expression and downcast lids of Florence's large hazel eyes.
"I asked him to let me go to the seminary this term, and he said if you
had no objection I might do so," said the hesitating girl, at length,
with a long-drawn breath, as though she had relieved her bosom of a heavy
burden.
The pale lady was silent a few moments, as if revolving the matter in her
mind. Then she spoke suddenly. "You said your father had no objection?"
"Yes," answered Florence.
"Then, of course, I have none," said the woman, turning over on her
pillow and settling herself as if to sleep again.
Florence was about to pour forth her gratitude for the favor shown her
request, when the dark-browed woman entered, shook her finger at her, and
bade her go below. Florence's eyes flashed back her answer.
"I'll go at my mother's request, not otherwise," said she.
A dark frown gathered on the woman's features, and the invalid said
tremblingly, "I would like to sleep; perhaps you had better go and stay
with your father a while, my dear."
Florence kissed the pale brow, and then moved toward the door with
noiseless tread. The dark woman cast a glance of angry triumph upon her,
which was returned by one of fearless defiance.
Since Florence's earliest recollection her mother had been an invalid,
shunning society and subject to long fits of depression, and, upon the
slightest excitement, to severe attacks of palpitation and bleeding from
the chest, which frequently prostrated her on a bed of suffering for
weeks. Hannah Doliver had always been her attendant, though Florence, in
the simplicity of her young heart, often wondered that her parents should
retain her in their service; for she was a bold, impudent,
violent-tempered woman, who set up her will for law in the household, and
seemed to exercise an almost tyrannic sway over the weak invalid, who
appeared to stand in awe of her slightest nod. She showed a marked
dislike for Florence, and delighted in tantalizing her, when she was a
little child, and thwarting her wishes. As the fair girl grew older, she
resolved the arbitrary woman should not govern or intimidate her, and met
all her attempts at petty tyranny with a bold, undaunted spirit, which
seemed to increase the woman's hatred. Florence once asked her father why
he did not send Hannah Doliver away.
"Your mother could not do without her, my child," said he.
"I think she could do better without her than with her," returned
Florence, "for she is cross to mamma, and makes her do everything just as
she says."
"O, no, I guess not," said her father.
"But she does," persisted Florence, "and I would not have her in the
house." Major Howard patted his little daughter's cheek and said, "When
you are older, Florence, you will understand a great many things that
seem dark and mysterious to you now."
Florence was not satisfied, but she turned away, and never mentioned the
subject to her father again.
Early the next morning the glad-hearted girl was astir, getting in
readiness for school. She gathered her books together and placed them in
a satchel of crimson broadcloth, which she had just embroidered, with
bright German wools, in wreaths of spotted daisies and wild columbines.
Then donning a blue muslin frock, dotted over with small silver stars,
and tying on a black silk apron with open velvet pockets, from one of
which peeped a snowy lace-edged handkerchief, she took satchel, gloves
and gypsy hat, and descended to the parlor, ensconcing herself in a nook
of the north window, where she stood gazing over the hill-tops toward the
distant forest with eager eyes to behold the fair-haired boy emerge from
its recesses.
At length he appeared, and she watched him till he was descending the
hill which sloped past her father's mansion. Then, hastily tying on her
hat and seizing her satchel, she was hurrying through the hall to gain
the street, when she encountered Hannah Doliver.
"Where are you going?" demanded she in a sharp tone.
"To school," answered Florence, rushing past her.
"By whose leave, I wonder?" said the woman, running after her, to drag
her back. But the nimble-footed girl was too swift for her, and she
returned to the house muttering angrily to herself. Meantime, Florence
bounded over the gravelled walks, and was emerging from the gateway just
as the lad, in the morocco cap, was passing by. He arrested his steps on
beholding her, and bowed gracefully. She returned his salute, and said,
blushingly, "I am going to school up to the seminary. May I walk with
you?"
"Certainly, Miss Howard," answered he; "I shall be grateful for your
company."
"You know my name," said she, advancing to his side; "I am ignorant of
yours."
"Edgar Lindenwood," returned he, and the two walked on together.
CHAPTER XIV.
----"She has dark violet eyes,
A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheek
The blushing blood miraculous doth range
From sea-shell pink to sunset. When she speaks
Her soul is shining through her earnest face
As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud.
My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,
It cannot gild her gold with all its words."
ALEXANDER SMITH.
There was a neat, little vine-covered cottage standing a few doors
removed from the elegant mansion of Leroy Edson, and in it dwelt Mrs.
Stanhope, a widow lady and her maiden sister, Miss Martha Pinkerton,
a female of uncertain age, as authors say, and possessed of the
peculiarities common to persons of her class. They were not poor, nor
were they rich, but made a good living, as the world goes, by taking in
needlework. Young Mrs. Edson frequently dropped in to pass an hour in
social converse with Mrs. Stanhope, who was a pleasant, agreeable woman.
Miss Martha, too, always wore a smile on her sharp-featured face when
the lovely young wife appeared at the cottage. As they were simple,
unostentatious people, living in a retired and quiet way, she laid aside
all form and ceremony, and was accustomed to run in at any hour, in
whatever garb she chanced to be.
On a bright May morning, as the ladies had made all things tidy, and were
seating themselves to their daily avocation of the needle, they heard
the garden gate swing, and beheld Mrs. Edson approaching in her little
white sun-bonnet and spotted muslin dressing-gown, open from the waist
downwards, revealing a fine cambric skirt, wrought in several rows of
vines and deep scolloped edges. Mrs. Stanhope met her visitor on the
porch.
"Good-morning," said she, extending her hand; "I am happy to see
you:--how beautiful and eloquent you are looking!"
"O, this glorious, sweet-breathed morning, with its birds and flowers,
is enough to brighten the most torpid thing into animation!" exclaimed
Louise, grasping her friend's hand warmly. "You don't know how I love
everything and everybody to-day, Mrs. Stanhope," she continued, in a
tone of earnest enthusiasm, as she entered the little parlor, still
holding the good woman by one hand, while she extended the other to
Miss Pinkerton, who rose from her work to receive her, and drew an
old-fashioned, straight-backed rocking-chair, cushioned and lined with
gay copperplate, up before the window for her comfort. "I must not sit
long," said Louise, assuming the proffered seat, "for I have left my
house quite alone; the servants having gone out on errands for
themselves. I tried one thing and another to divert myself, but the
birds sang so sweetly, the sun was so bright, and everything seemed to
say, up and away. So I donned my sun-bonnet and ran over here as the
nicest, quietest little nook I could fly to; and where I should be as
welcome in my morning-gown as in full dress of ruffles and satins."
"And even more so, if possible," answered Mrs. Stanhope; "simple people
like us are always a good deal put out and embarrassed by grandeur and
display. It has something awful and unapproachable in our eyes."
"It has something servile and contemptible in mine," said Louise; "I
always shrink from a woman flaunted out in rustling silks, great,
glaring rings on her fingers, and alarming jewels swinging like
ponderous pendulums from her ears. I think what a poor, little, pinched,
narrow-contracted, poverty-stricken soul is there, that seeks to atone
for the lack within, by rigging her poor body out like a veritable queen
of harlots."
Mrs. Stanhope and Miss Martha burst into a cordial fit of laughter, as
Louise, with a good deal of spirit and sarcasm, delivered herself of the
preceding speech; and, before their merriment had subsided, a knock was
heard at the inner door, and Col. Malcome stepped in, bowing gracefully,
with a pleasant "Good-morning" to the three ladies. Mrs. Stanhope rose
and offered him a chair. Depositing a large package he held in his arms
on a corner of the sofa, he sat down.
Mrs. Edson blushed. She thought it was at being caught from home in
dishabille by a gentleman of the colonel's etiquette and high breeding.
After a few casual remarks upon the beauty of the morning, he turned his
discourse to her, and remarked:
"I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Edson; we are getting to be quite strangers
of late. Edith is lamenting that you do not honor us with more frequent
visits."
"I have often wished to call on your family, Col. Malcome," returned
Louise, in a calm, clear voice; "but since your daughter commenced
attending school, have desisted, lest I might inconvenience her."
"Edith does not go to the seminary after two o'clock," said he; "her
evenings are quite unemployed, and she would be highly gratified to
receive a call from you."
"I shall be pleased to call on her, and also to receive more frequent
visits from her. She has less to confine her at home than I; so her
visits should outnumber mine."
"Ay, yes; you speak sensibly, Mrs. Edson," returned he; "you have more
calls on your time than Edith. Strange I can never remember you are a
married woman."
"It would be well for you to remember it," said Louise, with a dignified
curve of her graceful neck, and slight addition of color, which very much
heightened her beauty.
"Mrs. Edson is so youthful in appearance," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, "I
think she might excuse one for forgetting she is a matron."
"I'll excuse you, Mrs. Stanhope," said Louise, rising; "I don't want to
be anything to you, but your little girl, and to run in here just when I
have a mind to, and to have you chide me when I do wrong, and love me
always, whether right or wrong. So good-morning," and, curtseying
gracefully, she glided from the room and retraced her steps to her own
mansion.
There was a silence of several minutes after she left, during which Col.
Malcome recollected his package, and, placing it on the table, politely
inquired if the ladies could oblige him by sewing a quantity of linen, of
which he should be in need in course of a few weeks, as he meditated
going a journey. They would be very willing to do it for him, could they
get it in readiness by the time he would want it; but they had a great
deal of unfinished work on their hands. Miss Pinkerton was confident they
could accomplish the colonel's, however.
"I am doubtful, Martha," said Mrs. Stanhope; "you know the large bundle
Mrs. Howard's waiting-woman brought in, last night."
"O, that can easily be put by," returned Martha.
"But Hannah said the major wanted it in a month at longest."
"Pshaw! that's a phrase of her own making. It sounds just like Hannah
Doliver's impertinent manner of expressing herself."
Col. Malcome gave a sudden start as Miss Pinkerton carelessly uttered
these words.
"What did you say was the name of Mrs. Howard's woman?" he demanded, with
an eagerness that astonished his hearers.
"Hannah Doliver," repeated Miss Martha; "do you know her?"
"No," said he, suddenly assuming an appearance of composure; "that is, I
think not; but I have frequently heard the name of Doliver before. How
long has she lived with Major Howard?"
"A great many years, I believe," answered Martha. "People hereabouts
wonder at their keeping the ill-tempered, arbitrary hussy. They say she
rules the whole house save Miss Florence."
"Ay; the young lady must have a spirit, then, I should judge, if she
defies such a virago as you describe this woman to be."
"No more spirit than she should have," returned Miss Pinkerton. "A sweet,
beautiful girl is Florence Howard as ever the sun shone upon."
"Ay, yes, indeed," interposed Mrs. Stanhope; "she used to call on us last
summer, when her embroidery teacher was away, to get Martha to assist her
in her tambour work; and I declare, I thought her the most lovable
creature I ever saw."
"I am told these Howards do not mingle much in society," remarked the
colonel carelessly.
"No," returned Mrs. S., "Mrs. Howard never goes out. She is a confirmed
invalid, and her disease inclines her to quiet and solitude. I don't
believe there's a woman in the village who has seen her in all the
seasons the family have passed at Summer Home."
"O, yes!" said Miss Martha. "Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, saw her
once. When she was there a year ago this spring, putting the house to
rights, she cleaned the paint and windows of Mrs. Howard's room, and thus
got a sight at the invalid. She told me she was a pale, thin woman, with
a distressed expression of countenance. Her hair was nearly white, and
she looked much older than her husband."
Col. Malcome stood before a window with his back toward the ladies,
listening intently to their words.
"I have understood that Miss Florence is attending school at the seminary
this term," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, at length; "do you know if it is so,
Col. Malcome?"
"I think I heard Edith and Rufus say something to that effect," answered
he.
"I hope she will drop in and see us some day," said Miss Pinkerton. "She
and Mrs. Edson are great favorites of mine, and I doubt not your pretty
daughter would become one also, if I should get acquainted with her. We
are but humble people, but should be very happy to receive a call from
Miss Edith."
"Thank you," said the colonel; "'tis very possible she may some time
visit you, though she is rather timid and inclined to shrink from
strangers. Well, ladies, shall I leave my work?" he added, laying his
white hand on the package as he stepped toward the door.
"Yes," answered Miss Martha; "I will engage to have it ready in season
for you."
He bowed and withdrew. Miss Pinkerton peeped through the curtain, as he
walked down the garden path, and thought she had never beheld so handsome
and elegant a specimen of the genus homo.
CHAPTER XV.
"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!
When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;
When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,
Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,
And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep
Which never has wakened to watch or to weep.
She bounds on the soft grass,--half woman, half child,
As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.
The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.
She has never known pain--she has never known tears;
And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;
The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."
L. E. L.
"Father!" said Florence Howard, the second day of her first vacation,
"had I not better study Latin next term?"
"Latin!" answered he in a tone of surprise, "why should you study that?"
"O, for discipline to my mind," returned Florence.
"I think you will find the acquirement of French and Italian sufficient
discipline," said he.
"O, but they are so easily learned! I want something more
difficult--something I have to study hard on."
"Why, you would be running to me to get your lessons for you half the
time!" said her father, laughing.
"No, I wouldn't," answered she, shaking her curly head cunningly. "Edgar
would assist me."
"Edgar! and who is he?" inquired Major Howard.
"Why, Edgar Lindenwood! You know him," returned she.
"No, certainly I don't know anything about him," said her father.
"Why, you have seen the tall boy with the morocco cap and light curls,
that used to walk to school with me last term!" said Florence, looking
earnestly in his face.
"O, yes! I have seen him frequently," returned Major H. "What do you say
is his name?"
"Edgar Lindenwood."
"And where does he live?"
"With his uncle."
"And who is his uncle?"
"The Hermit of the Cedars."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Major Howard. "And so, this young hermit is going
to teach you Latin, Miss Florence? Romantic, upon my word!"
"Edgar is not a hermit!" said Florence, pouting her red lips and assuming
an air of dignity which vastly amused her father. "He is brave,
and bright, and handsome, and, our preceptor says, already a finer
scholar than many a graduate from the university."
"Well, well; I cannot argue the merits of this favorite of yours,
Florence," said her father; "but I promise to give him a larger share of
my attention henceforth."
"I wish you would, father," said Florence. "I may bring him home with me
from school some day,--may I not?"
"No!" returned Major Howard. "I can notice him in the street."
"But you cannot judge of him so far off," pursued Florence. "He looks
better the nearer you approach him."
"I shall judge him best at a distance," remarked her father, moving
away.
Florence did not exactly like the tone of voice in which he uttered
these last words; but she soon forgot all else in the contemplation of
studying Latin, and having Edgar's assistance in learning her lessons.
She had never in her life taken any note of time,--never felt it lag
heavily on her hands; but it appeared to her now that these interminable
days of vacation would never come to an end. She passed one of them with
Edith and Rufus Malcome, and this was by far the most insupportable of
any. "She loved Edith dearly," she said; "but could not endure the
childish prattle and frivolity of Rufus."
He was six months older than Florence, and Edith had seen seventeen
summers, while Florence was only in her fifteenth; but she was so well
matured in manners and appearance as to seem the senior of the delicate,
retiring Edith.
Col. Malcome paid her many courteous attentions during her visit, and
expressed an ardent hope that a friendship and intimacy might spring up
between her and his daughter.
Florence said she should be delighted to form a companionship with
Edith.
"We are located so near the seminary," said Col. Malcome, as she was
preparing to return home, and Rufus stood waiting to accompany her;
"while your father's mansion is so distant, that it will be very
convenient for you, on rough days, to come and pass the night with
Edith. Indeed, I should be highly gratified if you would make my house a
sort of second home, and come in, familiarly, every day, if you choose."
Florence thanked him for his kindness, kissed Edith, and descended to
the street in company with Rufus.
Col. Malcome approached the window and regarded the couple earnestly
till they passed beyond his view, while strange, dark, commingled
expressions passed over his face. Edith crept up to him and said softly,
"What troubles you, father?"
He looked down sternly on her sweet, upturned face, and said in a tone
of strong command:
"Edith, I desire you to cultivate the acquaintance of Florence Howard by
every means in your power."
"I shall be glad to do so, father," answered she, with a look and tone
which deprecated his sternness.
"'Tis well, then," said he, relaxing his brow and imprinting a kiss on
her soft cheek as he turned away and stepped forth upon the piazza. The
full moon was just rising in the east; the river rippled sweetly in the
distance, and the whippoorwills piped their sharp, shrill notes on the
hushed evening air. Suddenly he heard the garden-gate unclose, and,
turning, beheld Mrs. Edson and her husband approaching. Descending the
marble steps, he met them in the avenue, and, after a cordial
interchange of salutations, ushered them into the gas-lighted
drawing-room, where Edith, in a gossamer-like muslin, reclined on a
velvet ottoman.
The evening passed pleasantly to all but Mr. Edson, who sat like a
pantomime in a play, staring and grinning at what he could not
understand or digest. Col. Malcome seemed, however, to take a malicious
pleasure in placing his guest in the most awkward positions, and showing
off his own superior grace and polish to the best advantage. If
anything, he rather overdone. But perhaps he thought with Mrs. Salsify
Mumbles in this case, "Better overshoot than fall short." Louise was
graceful and self-possessed as usual; and it must be confessed did not
appear very much disconcerted when Col. M. showed her husband in some
ridiculous light, or mercilessly uncurtained his crude, narrow-minded
opinions and ideas.
Scorn and contempt for the man she had married were fast mastering all
kinder feelings she once had toward him.
CHAPTER XVI.
"I bid you leave the girl, and think no more
About her from henceforth."
"Ah, I can leave
Her, sire;--but to forget will be, I fear,
A thing beyond my power."
It was midsummer, and the Hermit of the Cedars sat under his low piazza,
curiously constructed of the enwreathed boughs and branches of evergreen
trees. He held a volume in his attenuated hand, with the contents of
which, he seemed intently occupied. His appearance was melancholy in the
extreme. A pale, thin face;--deep sunken eyes, and a broad, high brow,
by sorrow seamed with furrows long and wide; for she doth ever dig with
deeper, harsher hand than time. A loose linen garment was wrapped around
his tall, gaunt form, and a white handkerchief tied over his head to
prevent the passing breezes from blowing his thin, straggling gray hair
about his features.
So intent was he on the contents of his book that he did not notice the
approach of the cheerer of his solitude. Edgar came along the narrow
path with a step quicker and more impatient than was his wont, and there
was an expression on his fine, manly face which had something of
mortification and anger, but more of regret and sorrow. He threw his
satchel on the ground, and sat down at the hermit's feet, who laid aside
his volume, on beholding him in that position, and asked him if he was
fatigued or ill.
"No," said the youth, "but I shall be glad when I am gone away from here
to the university."
"Ah!" returned the hermit, "it is as I knew it would be when I placed
you at the seminary. Your desire for fame and honor has returned, and
you long to go forth in the great world and mingle in its
st[illegible]."
"No," said Edgar, "I would rather live and die within the walls of this
hermitage, than ever go beyond them again; but I'm resolved I will not
do the foolish thing. I'll go forth, and if my life is spared, show
those who call me a foundling, and a wild cub of the woods, that I am
something more than they suppose me to be."
"Who has dared apply such epithets to you, my boy?" exclaimed the
hermit, his pale cheeks glowing with anger.
"Do you know Major Howard of 'Summer Home?'" asked Edgar.
"That do I," answered the hermit; "and did he call you by these names?"
"Yes," returned Edgar.
"_He_ talk of foundlings!" said the hermit. "Why did you not slap him in
the face, Edgar?"
"The words did not come directly from him to me," said the youth,
wondering at his uncle's anger, which far exceeded his own.
"Ay, through a third person you obtained them? and that was"----
"His daughter, Florence Howard."
"Florence Howard!" repeated his uncle, "and what do you know of her?"
"I have been to school with her four or five months, and have assisted
her in her Latin studies this summer," returned Edgar.
"And shall never behold her face again!" said the hermit, in a tone of
angry vehemence, bringing his heavy sandalled foot down upon the wooden
sill with a violence that made Edgar start from his lounging posture on
the turf, and gaze with amazement upon the fierce workings of a face he
had never seen flushed by an angry emotion before. He feared his uncle
had suddenly gone mad, and stood indeterminate what course to pursue,
when the countenance before him changed, the eyes closed, and the hermit
fell heavily on the green sward in front of his door. Edgar, in his
alarm, lifted the prostrate form in his strong, young arms, and bore him
to the low, rough couch, which was their nightly resting-place. Then,
taking a bottle from a [illegible] shelf above the huge, black
fire-place, he poured its contents in a cup, and bathed the temples of
the deathly-looking face till the eyes opened with recognition, and the
lips moved, though inaudibly.
He watched by the bed-side several hours, and at length the hermit rose
suddenly to his feet, and bade Edgar retire. He obeyed, and closed his
eyes, but not to sleep. Opening them after a while, he beheld his uncle
sitting before the table engaged in writing. Again the lids closed, and
he fell into a light drowse, during which Florence Howard flitted before
him in countless variety of forms. When again he looked around he was
alone. The long summer twilight had deepened into evening, and Edgar
rose and lighted a lamp. On the table he discovered a small, folded
billet, addressed to him. He sank on his knees, opened it, and read.
Various were the expressions that flitted over his features as he did
so. When he had finished he refolded it carefully, and, drawing a bunch
of keys from his pocket, unlocked a small box which sat on the table,
placed the letter within, then relocked it and returned the keys to his
pocket.
Then he extinguished the lamp and sat down in the window-nook to his
watch of the stars.
But his thoughts were different from what they once were when he gazed
on their glistening faces.
His soul-pinions had kissed the earth, and become fouled by contact with
a grosser element; and heavy with a weltering weight of woe, that they
could not soar aloft and hover over the casements of angelic homes, to
rest at last on the glory-bright hills of heaven.
CHAPTER XVII.
"I only know their dream was vain,
And that they woke to find it past,
And when by chance they met again,
It was not as they parted last.
His was not faith that lightly dies;
For truth and love as clearly shone
In the blue heaven of his soft eyes
As the dark midnight of her own.
And therefore heaven alone can tell
What are his living visions now,
But hers--the eye can read too well
The language written on her brow."
PHEBE CAREY.
The yearly examination and exhibition of Cedar Hill Seminary was
approaching, and teachers and pupils were busied with preparations in
order to pass the ordeal creditably to themselves and to the
institution.
Prominent among the list of performers stood the name of Edgar
Lindenwood, often in juxtaposition with that of Florence Howard. Since
the scene in the hermit's hut, Edgar, as commanded by his uncle, had
studiously avoided Florence, and she, for a still longer period, had
evinced a certain distance and reserve toward him. Edgar's knowledge of
her father's dislike might be sufficient cause to part him from her, but
it could by no means justify his growing intercourse with Edith Malcome.
As the time approached for the exhibition, Florence asked her father's
permission to absent herself entirely and remain at home. Maj. Howard
thought she had better attend, as she had been to school several terms;
but she said she felt too languid to take part in the exercises, and
thus obtained the excuse of her indulgent father.
Edgar's quick, impassioned nature regarded her absence as a direct
insult to himself, for in all the parts assigned her, she would be
brought on the stage in company with him, and frequently obliged to hold
single converse. If this opinion needed further confirmation it was
added, when she appeared at the Scholars' Levee, held on the evening of
the exhibition, in elegant dress and dashing spirits, with Rufus Malcome
for a partner.
They passed each other in the dance without a token of recognition.
Edgar attached himself to Edith for the larger part of the evening.
After the first two or three cotillons he did not care to join them; and
Edith, being too delicate to bear the excitement, they roamed through
the hall, conversing together of the events of the exhibition, or
mingling among groups of the village people who had assembled by
invitation to partake in the festive scene.
"Ha, my little fairy!" whispered Mrs. Edson in the ear of Edith, as she
was sauntering past on the arm of Lindenwood, unmindful of her friend's
proximity; "are you so far skyward you can't see poor Louise? Introduce
me to your princely gallant, an' it please you."
Edith turned and presented Edgar to Mrs. Edson, who instantly found them
a place in the group around her.
"This scene brings vividly before me my happy school days," she
remarked, tears welling up to her beautiful eyes, which she dashed
hurriedly away, exclaiming, "but I must not begin to prose about myself
when I was young, lest I drive you all away by my tedious recitals."
"Mr. Lindenwood," said she, turning to Edgar, "though we have never met
before, your vivid personations on the stage to-day have caused you to
seem more like an old friend than a comparative stranger."
Edgar expressed his pleasure that his poor performances had met her
approbation, and also that she condescended to recognize him as a
friend.
"What a graceful creature is Florence Howard!" continued Mrs. Edson, as
the fair girl whirled past her in the dance. "Edith, your brother should
consider himself most fortunate in securing the most brilliant lady in
the room for a partner; no disparagement to your charms, my dear," she
added, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on the soft cheek of the
blushing girl. "You know what I think of you, darling. The spirit of
beauty is everywhere, says the poet. She assumes the largest variety of
types and forms, and, verily, she has given her most dangerous one to
Florence Howard. She is the brilliant dahlia, the pride of the gay
parterre; but my Edith is the modest daisy blooming in some sheltered
nook. The stormy winds shall rend the one from its lofty stalk and
scatter its wealth of purple leaves o'er the miry earth, while dews and
sunbeams kiss the modest plant that blooms in the lowly vale. Is it not
so, Mr. Lindenwood?" she asked, as, pausing, she encountered his gaze
fixed earnestly on her face.
"I don't know," he said; "that is, I have not considered the subject.
Edith, I think the party are retiring," he added, turning his eyes to
several disjointed groups; "remain with Mrs. Edson a few moments and I
will return to you."
As he entered the ladies' dressing room, he saw Florence standing alone
by the window, in the very spot where they had often stood in the
interim of recitations, and studied their lessons from the same book. He
thought he would give the world to know she was thinking of those times
now. Approaching softly he stood near her in silence a few moments.
"O, Florence!" said he, at length, in a low, deep tone, tremulous with
intense feeling and tenderness. Was there not enough of passionate
devotion breathed in that one word to convince her of his eternal,
unchanging affection?
What poor, weak simpletons are we, to pine and languish for words, where
looks and tones are infinitely more expressive! Some people affirm that
"actions speak louder than words." But we can't say much in favor of
those, because, as far as we know, people in love invariably act like
fools.
Florence turned at Edgar's adjuration, and he saw, by the moonlight, two
great tear-drops dimming her starry eyes. He was about to extend his
hand when Rufus Malcome rushed into the room, calling her name. Changing
his purpose, he said, in a light conventional tone, "Have you been happy
to night?"
"O, very!" answered she, with a gay laugh, which echoed in his ear long
after she had taken the arm of Rufus and tripped lightly away.
When Edgar returned to Edith, he found Col. Malcome in lively
conversation with Mrs. Edson. Florence and Rufus had disappeared, and
Edith signifying her wish to retire, he led her from the hall and
escorted her home. He found Florence in Col. Malcome's parlor sitting on
a sofa with Rufus at her side.
"Come in, Lindenwood," said he; "here's room for us all."
"Thank you," returned Edgar. "I have a long walk before me, and must not
tarry."
"O, stay with us to night," said Rufus.
"We should be pleased to have you remain, if agreeable," remarked Edith,
timidly.
"It would be very agreeable," said Edgar, politely, "but my absence
would alarm my uncle."
"O, he wants to be off to his hermitage!" laughed Rufus, coarsely; "let
him go. You will stay, won't you, Florence?"
"If Edith invites me," returned she.
"Well, I do," said Edith quickly.
"Then the point is settled," remarked Florence.
"Good-night to you all," said Edgar, moving hastily toward the door.
Scarce ten minutes had elapsed, after his departure, when Florence rose
and said, "Now I am going."
"Why, you just promised to remain all night," said Rufus, in a tone of
undisguised disappointment.
"No," said she; "I made no promise, and I am going."
"Then I'll go with you," returned Rufus, seizing his hat.
"No," said Col. Malcome, suddenly entering the apartment. "With Miss
Howard's consent, I'll be her escort home to-night."
Florence said she should be honored by his company. So bidding
good-night to Edith and Rufus, she took his proffered arm and descended
to the street.
"How have you enjoyed the ball to-night?" inquired he, as they walked on
together.
"Very well," answered she, briefly.
"This young Lindenwood, that burrows with the strange chap they call the
'Hermit of the Cedars;' you are acquainted with him, I believe."
"He has attended school at the seminary, since I commenced to go,"
answered Florence, as calmly as she was able.
"He has been paying Edith some attentions of late," continued the
colonel, in a careless tone; "do you suppose he really cares for her?"
"I don't know," answered Florence; and her voice trembled in spite of
her efforts to steady it.
"Of course you don't know," the colonel went on, still in that cold,
indifferent tone; "I merely asked what you thought?"
"I never thought anything about it in my life," said Florence, in a
choking voice.
"That's rather strange," returned he. "I have thought of it several
times lately;--but here we are at your father's gate. Present my
regards, and say I would be happy to receive a call from him whenever he
is so disposed."
Florence bowed good-evening to her gallant, and hurried to her own
apartment.
The night was warm. A waning moon lighted the eastern terrace, and, not
feeling disposed to sleep, she stepped through a window that opened to
the floor, and, leaning against a pillar, stood silently gazing over the
gardens and grounds below.
She had not been standing long thus when she beheld the figure of a man
moving slowly along the gravelled walks, pausing frequently and fixing
an earnest gaze on the windows of the apartment occupied by her mother.
She grew alarmed, and was about descending the stairs to arouse her
father, when she heard the hall door open softly, and saw the figure of
a woman stealing down the garden path. She recognized the dark form
instantly as that of Hannah Doliver. The man met her and the two went
into a green-house. After an hour the woman reappeared, and retraced her
steps to the mansion, but the man she saw no more. Securing her windows,
Florence retired, resolving to impart to her father a history of what
she had seen.
When, she did so, he only laughed at her and said he supposed it was
some enamored knight come to pay his devoirs to the fair lady of his
love, and counselled her to say no more of the matter, as it would
needlessly irritate Hannah to know her secret was discovered.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"The world hath used me well, and now at length
In peace and quietness I sit me down
To feed upon the fruits of my hard toils.
Ambition doth no more distract my breast,--
I've reached the height my spirit strove to gain;
Here will I rest, and watch life glide away."
It is quite time for us to call on Mrs. Salsify Mumbles again. We fear
the good lady, who is rather sensitive on such points, has felt
neglected ere this; but we hope not, and, as her mansion heaves in view,
we are convinced that matters of more importance than visits from our
humble selves, have engaged our old friend's attention.
The second story has actually gone up, and the piazza spreads its white
palings along the sides of Mr. Salsify's dwelling. The pasteboard sign
of "Mr. Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," is no longer seen swinging
from the bed-room window, but a new sign stretches its sublime length
over the doors of Mr. Salsify's old grocery, announcing, in staring
black and yellow, to the inhabitants of Wimbledon, that "Mumbles, Shaw &
Co., wholesale dealers in pork, cheese, onions, dried apples, sausages,
and verdigris, continue at the old stand, No. 9 Temple street, where
they will entertain the trading public in a genteel and finished
manner."
Thus it appears Mr. Salsify's high hopes are at length realized. Most
fortunate man! He has "risen in his profession" to the topmost summit of
his earthly ambition.
Happy will it be for him if he remains content with his present
elevation, and goes not, like too many restless mortals, clambering to a
higher point, only to fall back, on some adverse day, into the slough of
ill-luck and despondency.
Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we
should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary
Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen
bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we
look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like
that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit
of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance
which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not
likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the
great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white
heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden
shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar
Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed;
nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is
something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped,
though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set
of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of
the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to
the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have
pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no
doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than
we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie
Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like
Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of
Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom,
and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.
'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.
While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those
impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things
are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she
"wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry
shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss
Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a
little light work for her, to-morrow; for she has got to go to Goslin
Flats to attend a great mass convention, and can't stop to do it
herself. She will pay Aunt Dilly well, if she will oblige her. Garrison
has been sick--Peggy Nonce is away on a visit to her son, who has
recently been married, and mamma's public duties and household affairs
have proved too heavy for her shoulders," etc., etc.
Susy ran through a long rigmarole, with a volubility worthy the daughter
of a fluent public speaker.
We hasten away lest our mania for discovering resemblances should detect
one between Mrs. Salsify Mumbles and pert Susy Pimble.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Ay, little do those features wear
The shade of sin,--the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain-snow,
And clusters there in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of angry thought."
In an arbor of Major Howard's elegant garden, the moonlight shimmering
its rich, clustering vines with silver, and the night-breezes murmuring
in low, musical voices among the dark green leaves, sat a man of
commanding aspect and handsome features. Light auburn hair, closely
trimmed, lay in short, thick masses of wavy curls around his high, pale
brow. His mien and manner indicated the well-bred gentleman. A small,
dark figure crouched beside him. It was Hannah Doliver.
"We meet again at last," said the man, after a considerable silence. His
voice was low and deep, and the woman trembled as she answered,
"I marvel how you have discovered me."
"Few things escape my knowledge which it subserves my interest to know,"
returned he. "What in the name of all the fiends possessed you to enter
the service of Tom Howard?"
"A lone, forsaken female finds shelter where she can," whined the woman.
"O, don't babble in that hypocritical tone!" said the man. "I did not
leave you so destitute; and I took the child off your hands that no
incumbrance might fetter your footsteps."
"Fiend!" exclaimed Hannah. "You shall not talk to me thus. What have you
done with my boy?"
"I have done well by him," answered the man. "He has been reared as a
gentleman. No stain has ever been suspected on his birth."
"Where is he?" asked she, in a voice trembling with emotion.
"He is near you. I left him but an hour ago, well and happy."
"Near me!" said the woman almost wildly. "It cannot be--you lie to me,
Herbert!"
"By the heavens above, I utter the solemn truth!" returned the man.
"What name does he bear?"
The man bowed his tall form and whispered in her ear. She sprang to her
feet, paced hurriedly to and fro down the little alcove, and at length
threw herself on her knees and exclaimed,
"O, let me see him! Can you be so cruel as to withhold the child from
his mother's right?"
"It rests with you to decide whether you see him or no," said the man,
wholly unmoved by her distress and emotion. Swear to keep my presence
here a secret, and do my bidding in all things, and you may see your boy
when you choose."
"I swear!" answered the woman, frantically.
"Tell me first why you are here serving Tom Howard's wife?"
"I am not serving his wife."
"Who then?"
"His sister."
"His sister!" exclaimed the man, now evincing strong emotion. "And does
she live?"
"She lives; and lives to palm herself off on the world as the wife of
her own brother."
"What iniquity!" said the man. The woman burst into a low laugh.
"Why do you laugh?" demanded he, fiercely.
"Because iniquity comes so prettily from your lips," replied she in a
sarcastic tone.
"Take care, woman!" said he. "Remember you are in my power."
The little dark figure trembled and was silent.
"I wonder she would receive you again into her service," remarked the
man at length in an absorbed tone.
"Fear is a strong motive. I threatened to reveal her deception to the
public."
"Ay, you have some skill and tact, I find!" said he, rising. "Now
remember, when I wish to see your mistress, you are to gain me an
entrance to her."
"What do you want to see her for?" asked the woman. "I believe a sight
of you would throw her into fits."
"It is none of your business why I wish to see her," said he. "But mind,
you do not look on your boy unless you implicitly obey all my commands."
Here he stooped and whispered again in her ear.
"I hate the girl!" she said, after he had ceased speaking and stood
gazing down on her, twirling his velvet cap carelessly in his hand.
"But you would like to see your boy so well married," remarked he.
"'Twould be a sweet revenge," she said in a chuckling tone. He turned
to depart.
"Herbert!" she called, softly.
"What do you wish?" said he, pausing.
The woman hesitated, and at length said, "The girl--her child I mean; is
she----?"
Again the man whispered in her ear. "None can say," he added aloud,
"that I have not been a kind parent to my children."
"I'm glad there's some virtue in you," said the woman, turning toward
the quiet mansion that stood in almost palace-like magnificence in the
midst of the beautiful grounds that surrounded it on all sides. The man
lingered behind, and finally left the garden by a path lying in an
opposite direction from the one by which he had entered. He bent his
steps rapidly in the direction of the river. Either the warmth of the
night or his own emotions oppressed him; for, as he gained its banks, he
slackened his pace, drew off his cap, and loosened his collar. With
arms folded across his chest, he moved slowly along, like one intensely
absorbed in some dark and intricate train of thought. Sometimes he
muttered to himself, and made strange gestures, or tossed his head with
a confident air, as though he saw onward to the success of some plan he
concerted. So occupied was he in his own thoughts, that he never saw the
tall, gaunt figure of a man, crouching in the shadow of a small linden
tree, that stood on the bank of the river, nearly opposite Dilly
Danforth's wretched abode, although he passed in so close contact as to
brush against the little bundle of sticks the unknown held in his hand,
while his deep, sunken eyes glared on the passer till they seemed nearly
starting from their sockets.
"'Tis he!" murmured the gazer, when the abstracted one was beyond the
sound of his voice. "I must see where he goes;" and, stealing
noiselessly to the door of Dilly's abode, he placed the bundle of sticks
on her sill, and slowly followed the receding figure.
CHAPTER XX.
"And the clear depths of her dark eye
Were bright with troubled brilliancy,
Yet the lips drooped as with the tear,
Which might oppress, but not appear.
Her curls, with all their sunny glow,
Were braided o'er an aching brow;
But well she knew how many sought
To gaze upon her secret thought;--
And love is proud--she might not brook
That others on her heart should look."
One pleasant autumn evening a social group were assembled in Mr. Leroy
Edson's tasteful parlor. A tall, argand lamp on a marble table, shed its
mild, ethereal light over the rich furniture. A bright fire glowed in
the marble grate, and in the genial atmosphere of her own creating,
young Mrs. Edson moved, a thing of grace and beauty. She wore a robe of
emerald Genoa velvet, with an open bodice, laced over a chemisette of
fine-wrought Mechlin lace. Broad, drooping Pagoda sleeves revealed her
white arms encircled by quaintly-fashioned jet bracelets. Her guests
were not numerous, but select. Col. Malcome and his family were most
prominent among the number. Florence Howard was there, attended by
Rufus, and Edgar Lindenwood in company with Edith. Jenny Andrews, with
no less a personage than our quondam, roguish friend, Dick Giblet,
shop-boy of Mr. Salsify Mumbles' grocery; now Mr. Richard Giblet, of the
firm of Edson, Giblet & Co. A very respectable appearance Dick made,
too, for he was a quick, sprightly young fellow, albeit somewhat
over-fond of a mischievous joke; but this he would outgrow in time
probably. Amy Seaton, sedate and modest as ever, with laughing Charlie
for her beau, and several others, among whom we might mention Miss
Martha Pinkerton, made up the little party.
Edith looked fragile and sweet as ever in a dress of azure thibet cloth,
her light hair hanging in clusters of wavy curls over her small
shoulders. She leaned gracefully on the arm of Lindenwood, and looked in
his face with a gentle, artless expression of countenance.
Florence, in her crimson cashmere, and dark, massy ringlets, looked a
shade paler than when we last saw her, but more queenly and brilliant,
if possible.
There were many points of resemblance between her and Louise Edson. Both
were endowed with superior mental and intellectual powers; both
accomplished and beautiful; but there was at times a gentleness in
Florence's manner, a dreamy light in the far depths of her large, hazel
eyes, that indicated less firmness and strength of character, with
tenderer susceptibilities. Perhaps life's trials would sooner unnerve
her spirit.
Mr. Edson was not present, nor was it necessary he should be, to enhance
the enjoyment of his gifted wife. He was, in fact, very much the same
sort of an appendage in his elegant mansion that Mrs. Pimble averred her
husband to be in his,--"a mere crank to keep the machine in motion." Not
that Mrs. Edson monopolized her husband's sphere, as did the masculine
Mrs. Pimble. By no means. She appeared to give her lord full sway and
sceptre in his own household, and the good-natured man thought never
husband had so obedient, condescending partner as blessed his bosom.
Consummate actress, to conquer where she seemed to yield, and use her
advantages so skilfully that the vanquished felt himself the victor.
Mrs. Pimble stormed and blustered, but she exercised not half the power
over her household that Louise Edson swayed by a soft word or placid
smile.
But we forget our party, which waxes merry as the evening progresses,
warmed by the genial influences of social intercourse. Col. Malcome and
Mrs. Edson discussed the merits of different authors; Lindenwood
modestly joined them, and Florence dropped an occasional word. Edith sat
silent. Rufus yawned, and at length commenced a game of forfeits with
Dick Giblet, over which he soon grew so boisterous, that his father
reproved him sternly for a violation of the rules of politeness. The
youth's brow flushed with sudden anger, and for the remainder of the
evening he sat apart from the company. When the party dispersed he did
not come forward to claim Florence, and she fell a second time to the
care of Col. Malcome. Edgar escorted Edith, and the couples went
different ways to reach their destinations. Edgar took the street by the
river, and Col. M. that leading past the seminary. The latter had much
the longer walk; but Edith, fragile and delicate, complained of fatigue,
ere they had proceeded far, and Edgar proposed she should rest awhile on
the trunk of a fallen tree by the river's brink. She sat down, and he,
after a few moments, assumed a seat at her side. Her veil was thrown
off, and her small silk hat had fallen back from her head, revealing in
full her girlish features and wavy, auburn curls. Edgar was gazing on
the beautiful face, when suddenly a footstep met his ear, and, turning,
he beheld his uncle, the hermit, standing before them, staring wildly
upon Edith; who, as soon as she discovered the strange-looking being,
uttered a faint scream and sunk on Edgar's bosom. "Don't be alarmed,"
said he, whispering in her ear; "this man will not harm you,"--and then
lifting his head to address his uncle, and inquire what brought him
there, so far from home at that late hour, he found the hermit had
disappeared.
Calming Edith's alarm as well as he was able, he escorted her home, and
then set off for the hut in the forest, pondering, as he went, upon the
event of the evening, and wondering what could be the cause of the
fierce and ireful expression which disfigured the usually placid face of
his uncle, as he gazed so fixedly on Edith. It reminded him of the
violent passion evinced in regard to his intercourse with Florence
Howard. He knew the recluse had experienced a severe disappointment in
early life, and concluded this had tended to sour his mind toward the
whole female race, and caused him to look with angry distrust upon the
most gentle and lovely of the sex. In no other way could he account for
the repugnance manifested by his uncle toward his friendship and
acquaintance with both Florence and Edith. Thus ruminating, he reached
the forest habitation to find all dark and gloomy. The hermit had not
returned to his hut.
Col. Malcome lingered a moment as he escorted Florence to the door of
her father's mansion, and, as he did so, Major Howard stepped forth,
rather suddenly. Florence presented him to the colonel, and the two
gentlemen shook hands cordially.
"I have frequently desired to call on you and form your acquaintance,
Col. Malcome," said the major; "but frequent absences from home, and the
delicate health of my wife, have prevented me hitherto."
A slight, cynical smile flitted over the colonel's face at these latter
words, but it was not observed in the obscure light of evening, and he
answered, politely, that he had often desired an acquaintance with the
major, and hoped that now their children had established a friendly
intercourse, the parents might soon follow the example.
Major Howard expressed a wish that it might be so, and Col. Malcome,
bowing gracefully, retired.
Florence, after inquiring for her mother, and learning she was
comfortable as usual, ascended to her room, made fast the door, and drew
forth her journal, which was the dearest companion of her lonely hours,
the receptacle of her most treasured thoughts, and safety-valve for all
unuttered griefs and hidden sorrows.
She had scarcely touched her gold-tipped pen to the virgin page, when a
soft knock on the door displaced her train of thought.
"Father?" said she putting her lips close to the lock, for he was the
only one from whom she could expect a call at that late hour. There was
no answer. She hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. Hannah
Doliver slid in.
Florence stood still, gazing with astonishment on the little wiry form,
as it wormed around the apartment, touching the books, and giving sudden
pulls at the curtains and bed drapery. She had never seen Hannah over
her threshold before, and wondered what a visit from her might import.
"I came to see if you wanted anything, Miss Florence," said the woman,
at length, fixing her twinkling eyes on the fair girl's face.
"No!" said Florence, in an impatient tone; "what should I want at this
hour, but to be alone?"
"O, I'm not going to intrude upon you but a moment," returned Hannah. "I
thought, as you had been out late and 'twas rather cold, you might want
a fire lighted in your room, or a cup of warm tea, or something; so I
ran up to see." Florence grew more and more astonished. "Have you
enjoyed yourself this evening?" asked Hannah.
"Yes," answered Florence briefly.
"I am glad to hear it," returned the woman. "This Col. Mer---- what is
his name?" she paused and asked abruptly.
"Malcome," said Florence.
"O, yes! I'm bad at remembering strange names. Well, this Col. Malcome
has got some fine children, has he not?"
"Yes," returned Florence; "his daughter is a beautiful girl."
"And his son?"
"Is a loggerhead."
At these words, a furious anger, flashed over Hannah's face, and,
glaring fiercely on Florence for a moment, she darted from the room and
slammed the door behind her. The
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