"From the hour by him enchanted,
From the moment when we met;
Henceforth by one image haunted,
Life may never more forget.
All my nature changed--his being
Seemed the only source of mine.
Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing
Thy sad future to divine?"
Florence Howard sat in a deep-cushioned fauteuil, beside a marble table
which graced the centre of the elegant apartment she called her own. A
loose robe, of India cashmere, in superb colors, with a lining of the
softest, rose-colored velvet, was folded carelessly about her graceful
form. One white hand toyed with the luxuriant chestnut curls, that hung
in beautiful profusion over her shoulders; the other rested lightly on
the cushioned arm of the chair. A quantity of rich writing materials
were spread out on the table before her; but she glanced towards them
listlessly, and at length bowed her queenly head between her hands, and
sat a long time still and silent, as if absorbed in reverie. Ever and
anon her little foot tapped impatiently the soft carpet beneath it, as
though some harassing, unpleasant vision disturbed her brain. The clear,
ringing chimes of the college clock finally aroused her to
consciousness.
Rising, she drew aside the heavy folds of the damask curtain, and gazed
for a moment forth on the sleeping earth. The stars were bright, and a
slender crescent rim hung just above the dark cedar forest that swept
and swayed to the northward. Florence dropped the curtain, and,
returning to the table, opened a large morocco-bound volume, which
revealed a virgin page. Twirling the silver top from a carved, mosaic
inkstand, she dipped the golden tips of a pearl-handled pen in its ebon
contents, and holding it between her small, taper fingers, rested her
arm a few moments on the stand, as if waiting for her thoughts to form
and arrange themselves ere she gave them expression. Suddenly the pen
dashed off, and line after line of graceful characters grew on the pure,
white page till it was completely filled.
"I have looked out on the midnight," she wrote, "with all its countless
diamonds blazing on its brow; and far on the verge of the northern
horizon hung the pale disc of the young crescent moon hurrying to
obscure itself behind the dark, gloomy forest,--like as my hopes fail
when I turn my eyes toward those cedar-tops. O, earth, how soon thy
children learn the lesson of sorrow and distrust! But where is my old
pen taking me this evening? This journal grows a sad, ghostly thing,
o'ersplashed with tears, and wo-fraught to the edges.
"To turn the subject: What have I done to-day? Moped dismally till
evening, and then muffled myself in furs; sat down among cushions and
buffalo robes in the omnibus-sleigh, beside ----, shall I write it? yes!
beside Rufus Malcome, and dashed away over the snow-clad earth to the
music of merry bells and merrier voices around me.
"How finely Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet enjoyed themselves! I
understood their happiness well. Mrs. Edson was not quite so buoyant
with spirits as usual; but she conversed with Rufus in her charming
style. I was quite indignant to hear so much eloquence and refinement
wasted on a churl like him, and just malicious enough to think the fair
speaker would have preferred to say her pretty things in the ear of one
who could have better appreciated their worth and beauty, namely, Col.
Malcome. He is really a splendid man, though I hardly relish the power
he seems to exercise over father, who is so infatuated with him I
believe he would scarcely be able to refuse any request he might choose
to make. I wonder so talented a father should own a dolt like Rufus for
a son. Silly-pated fellow! he has made love to me several times. I say
_made_ it, and truthfully; for no such simpleton as he could ever
actually _feel_ it in their bosoms. But then, no doubt, he thinks he is
in love,--desperately so. I have no pity for him; nothing but contempt,
and yet, should he propose for me to my father, I fear the result would
be his acceptance. He has wealth and position, and I know father has a
suspicion that I have yet a lingering recollection of the hermit's boy,
as he calls Edgar. O, name of all others! Have I dared write it in full
on these pages? I must draw an obscuring line over it. There! Now,
'One last, long sigh to hope and love,
Then back to busy life again.'"
While Florence was occupied with her journal in the room above, Col.
Malcome sat with her father in the parlor below, and that which she had
feared might some time come to pass had actually occurred; and when she
nestled down on her soft pillow and sank to sleep, if her slumbers were
not tranquil and dreamless, they were sweeter than any she might know
for many a weary night to come; for she slept in blissful ignorance that
she was the affianced bride of Rufus Malcome. Early on the following
morning her father imparted to her the dismal intelligence.
"I have accepted him," said Major Howard, "on the conditions that the
engagement shall remain a secret between the families, and the union not
be consummated for at least one year, as you are both young. Col.
Malcome will give his son fifty thousand dollars on his marriage, and
also a splendid situation wherever he chooses to reside."
He ceased, and Florence remained silent and abstracted.
"This will be a match suitable for my daughter," said the fond father,
approaching and laying his hand affectionately on her bowed head. "Does
she not agree with me?"
Florence lifted her face; the light seemed suddenly to have gone out of
her eyes and left them in utter darkness. No tinge of color glowed on
her features, which worked with painful and scarcely suppressed emotion.
The father started back on beholding her. "My child!" he exclaimed,
"what is the matter?"
"Leave me alone, father, I entreat of you!" she said.
"Not till you tell me what is distressing you so," said he, chafing her
cold hands in his. "Is this engagement so repulsive, so averse to your
feelings, as to cause this appearance of agony and distress?"
But she only said, "Leave me, dear father, I entreat you, for a while! I
have a sudden illness. By and by I will speak to you."
Awed by her tone and manner, the fond father obeyed. An hour passed by,
during which the grief-stricken girl never moved, when the door opened,
and Hannah Doliver entered. She glowered on Florence with an expression
of hate and gratified revenge, which changed to one of fawning fondness
when the pale, tear-stained face was turned toward her. "Pray, don't sit
here in the cold all day!" said she. "Your mother desires you to come to
her."
Florence wrapped her rich dressing-gown around her, stole down the
stairs and entered the apartment of the invalid, who reached her wasted
arm from the bed as she approached, and clasped it round the slender,
graceful waist. The young girl bowed her head on the pillow, and burst
into tears.