"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 young girl turned the key, saying, "I'm
glad to be rid of her hateful presence. What possessed her to come here
is more than I can tell." And in the surprise this unusual visit
occasioned, she retired and forgot her journal.