"To the old forest home
I hie me again;
But I bring not the gladness
My spirit knew when
I roamed in my childhood
Its wide-spreading bounds;
For sorrows have pierced me,
My soul wears the wounds."
The Hermit of the Cedars sat in his antique room alone, by a peat-wood
fire. He appeared wrapt in moody thought and contemplation, though ever
and anon, as the wintry blast gave a wilder sweep over the swaying roof
above him, he turned and glanced uneasily toward the door, as though he
wished and waited the appearance of some form over its threshold. But
the hours passed on, and no one came to cheer his loneliness. So,
heaping the ashes over the glowing embers, he betook himself to his
lowly couch, but his head had hardly touched the pillow when a quick
step crackling along the icy path struck his ear. Ere he could reach the
door it was pushed open, and a voice called out hastily, "Uncle Ralph!"
"Edgar, my boy!" exclaimed the hermit, groping in the darkness to clasp
him in his arms. "Are you returned at last?"
"Yes, dear uncle," answered the young man; "I reached the village by the
evening stage, and hurried with all speed to my old forest home."
The hermit lighted a candle and raked open the coals. A bright fire soon
burned on the hearth, and by its ruddy blaze the fond uncle marked the
changes two years had wrought in the appearance of his nephew. He was
taller, and a manly confidence of tone and manner had succeeded the
reserve and timidity which characterized his boyhood. The luxuriant
masses of soft brown hair were brushed away from the clear, pale brow,
and the deep blue eyes glowed in the conscious light of genius and
intellectual fervor. The hermit gazed with ardent admiration on the
commanding elegance and beauty of the form before him.
"Education and travel have made a wonderful improvement in your
appearance, my boy," he remarked at length, his voice trembling with
emotion as he spoke. "Still I don't know but I liked you better as the
curly-headed boy in morocco cap and little blue frock-coat, that used to
come bounding over the forest path, with his satchel in hand; or set
here of long winter evenings, reading some treasured volume at my side;
or perched within the window nook gazing silently upward at the
glistening stars;--for the dreamy boy I could keep near me, but the
lofty, ambitious man I cannot hope to prison here in a solitary
wilderness,--nor should I indulge in a wish so selfish," he added. "Tell
me, Edgar, of your travels, your enjoyments and occupations, since you
departed from this lowly roof."
The young man gave a brief rehearsal of the principal events of the past
two years. He hesitated somewhat when he came to his meeting and renewal
of acquaintance with Florence Howard, recollecting his uncle's former
aversion to their intercourse. He might have passed over it in silence,
but his delicate sense of honor would not allow him to deceive in the
smallest point the heart that loved him so devotedly. The listening man
bent earnest, scrutinizing glances on the speaker's face as he proceeded
with his tale, and when it was finished, bowed his gray head on his thin
hands, as was his wont when engaged in deep thought, and remained
silent.
At length a tremendous blast swept through the forest, blew open the
door, and scattered the coals from the deep fire-place over the floor of
the apartment. The moody man started from his reverie. Edgar secured the
door, and, taking a broom composed of small sprigs of hemlock and cedar,
brushed the scattered embers into a pile.
"Do you not wish to retire?" asked the hermit, as the young man resumed
his seat in the corner.
"As you wish, uncle," returned he; "I do not feel much fatigued."
"Ay, but I think you are so," said the kind-hearted man, regarding
attentively his nephew's features. "My joy at beholding you has rendered
me forgetful of your physical comforts. Let me get you some refreshment,
and then you shall lie down and rest your weary limbs."
The hermit took a small brown earthen jug from a rude shelf over the
fire-place, and, pouring a portion of its contents into a bright-faced
pewter basin, placed it on a heap of glowing coals. Then going to a
cupboard he brought forth a large wooden bowl, filled with a coarse,
white substance. When the contents of the basin were warm he placed it
on the table, and setting a chair, said, "Come, my boy, and partake of
this simple food. 'Tis all I have to offer you; not like the dainty
repasts at which you are accustomed to sit in the abodes of wealth and
fashion."
Edgar approached and took the proffered seat.
"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate
than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet
milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he
continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl
to his basin.
"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy,
Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.
"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why
does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his
companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."
A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew,
with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.
"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was
lonely without him."
Edgar rose from his simple repast.
"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear
you will rest but ill on my hard couch."
"My slumbers will be sweet as though I reposed on eider down," returned
he, "if you will but assure me that my coming or words have not marred
your quiet and composure."
"My boy," said the hermit, gazing on him anxiously, "what do you mean?
How should the arrival of one I have so longed to behold give aught but
joy to my lonely soul?"
"I may have spoken words that grieved you," said the young man,
sorrowfully; "but I could not bear to conceal the truth from you, dear
uncle;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.
"Edgar," returned the hermit, with emotion, "I am grateful for your
confidence, and though I could have wished your heart's affections
bestowed on some other woman, I will no longer oppose your inclinations.
Marry Florence Howard if you choose."
"Marry her!" exclaimed Edgar, suddenly breaking in upon his uncle's
discourse. "She is engaged to another."
"What is his name?" asked the hermit.
"Rufus Malcome," returned the young man.
"What! a brother to the girl I saw with you on the river bank?" inquired
the recluse, with a sudden excitement of manner.
"Yes," said Edgar; "the brother of Edith Malcome."
"O, the mysterious workings of fate!" exclaimed the hermit, falling
again into a ruminating silence, which Edgar did not deem it wise to
disturb.
So they laid down on the lowly couch, and the young man, fatigued with
his journeyings, drew the coverings over his head to exclude the shrill
shriekings of the sweeping blasts, and soon rested quietly in the sweet
forgetfulness of sleep.
Sleep! angel ministrant to the grief-stricken soul. How many that walk
this verdant earth would fain lie locked in her slumberous arms forever!