"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.