"They loved;--and were beloved. O happiness.
I have said all that can be said of bliss
In saying that they loved. The young heart has
Such store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,
And it is love that works the mind, and brings
Its treasure to the light. I did love once,
Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though now
My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear
The falsest of false things--a mask of smiles;
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory
Of that which has been."
Summer showered her wealth of roses over the gardens and grassy paths of
Wimbledon. Day after day the sound of the busy hammer rang out on the
scented air, and crowds of workmen were seen at eventide hurrying to
their separate places of abode. Great teams, loaded with fancy and
ornamental wood and iron work, labored through the streets, and "Summer
Home" was rising from its ruins in all its former magnificence and
splendor.
Major Howard decided he could not use the confiscated wealth of the
pretended Col. Malcome for a better purpose than to rebuild the mansion
his wickedness had destroyed.
Florence was delighted at the prospect of regaining the beautiful home
she had lost; for, elegant and luxurious as was her present abode, she
was disquieted by too frequent remembrance of the terrible scenes she
had witnessed beneath its roof. Still, the Howards were for the most
part very happy. Edith's bright head was again covered with its golden
wealth of curls, and her merry laughter echoed joyously through the
halls and parlors of the proud mansion. It seemed her greatest delight
to bring a smile to the wan cheek of her mother, who was failing slowly,
even beneath the genial influence of a summer sun.
As Florence stood on the vine-curtained terrace one balmy August
morning, inhaling the sweet air, and listening to the thrilling
warblings of Edith's pet canaries, as they swung in their wire-wrought
cages from the roof above, she beheld Willie Danforth coming up the
garden path, holding a letter toward her in his cunning, tempting way.
She extended her hand to receive it.
"No," said he, suddenly drawing it back. "I don't think I'll let you
have this tiny little missive, unless you will first promise to tell me
who is the writer."
"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching
for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager,
impatient aspect.
His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded
her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal
appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a
room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked
favorites of hers.
At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and
hurried through the contents.
"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile;
"for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a
little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we
stand on now?"
The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,
"That do I, and her brother Neddie."
"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said
she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"
"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their
acquaintance, Florence?"
"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I
recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at
Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could
give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had
heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said
Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a
son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a
solitary hermit. So she would believe you were dead."
"And did that belief appear to cause her any regret?" asked William, who
had been listening with an earnest expression to Florence's words.
"Yes, indeed," returned she; "the pretty, gentle girl has a strong
regard for you, Willie. You must renew acquaintance when she and her
brother come to pay me their long-meditated visit."
"I don't know," said the young man, rather sadly.
"I believe you will be a second Hermit of the Cedars, or the Hemlocks,
or the Pines," said she, laughing; "for you are already half as
melancholy as your uncle, at times."
"Do you consider him so very gloomy, then?" asked Willie.
"He has the most mournful expression I ever saw," answered Florence;
"but he is an entertaining companion for all that. I always sit apart,
and listen in silence, when he relates some tale or adventure of his
extensive travels. He was with us yesterday evening, and I never saw him
so animated and lively before. Even Aunt Mary's pale, grief-worn
countenance assumed a cheerful expression while listening to his
sprightly, intelligent conversation."
"Did you not know the cause of his unusual exhilaration?" inquired
William.
"No," said Florence, looking innocently in the face of the questioner.
"Edgar is at home."
"Why did he not inform us of his nephew's return?" asked Florence,
growing suddenly very pale, and finding it convenient to lean against a
pillar near by.
"Perhaps he did not think the intelligence would interest your family,"
returned Willie; "he is very modest in his confidences."
The seminary bell now commenced to ring, and the youth hastened away
with a pleasant good-morning.
Florence stood there a long time, behind the thickly-interwoven
woodbines and honeysuckles, supporting herself against the marble
column, forgetful of all save the blissful thought that the man she
loved was once more near her. He was, indeed, nearer than she supposed,
for there came a light footstep on the vine-shrouded terrace, and she
felt an arm stealing softly around her, while a voice, whose briefest
tone she could never mistake, whispered in her ear:
"Again we have met, and O, Florence! say, in mercy say, it shall be to
part no more!"
There is nothing so natural, to a woman that loves, as the presence of
the beloved object; and Florence turned toward Edgar with no amazement
or surprise; but love unspeakable lighted her features as she placed her
hand in his, tenderly, trustfully, and with a manner that convinced him
she would never withdraw it again.
Then she led him into the drawing-room, where the family soon assembled,
and were presented to the young artist.
Aunt Mary was delighted with his appearance, and soon engaged him in a
conversation which grew very brilliant and animated on his part, and was
joined in by Florence and Edith, till Major Howard entered, whose joy at
again beholding his former travelling companion knew no bounds, and the
mirth and merriment increased four-fold. Evening had fallen ere they
were aware, when Edgar rose and said he must return to the hermit's
habitation.
All regretted to lose his presence, and Major Howard strongly invited
him to regard his mansion as a home while he should remain in the
vicinity.
Edgar thanked him for his generous offer, and gracefully bowed a
good-evening.
Florence accompanied him to the hall door, and he drew her forth on the
terrace, which was now glinted over by the silvery moonbeams.
"Come soon again," said she.
"Yes, dearest," he answered. A long, sweet kiss and gentle adieu, in
which there was love enough to feast even her long-famishing soul, and
he was gone.
She skipped lightly into the parlor, kissed her father, Aunt Mary,
Edith, Sylva, and Fido, the little Spanish poodle that was nestled in
her arms, and then bounded up the stairs to her own apartment, singing
as she went.
"There goes the happiest heart in Wimbledon, to-night," said her father,
as he caught the sound of her musical voice ringing through the spacious
hall above.
"Save one," said Aunt Mary, with a sad smile.
"He is beyond its precincts," returned Major Howard. "Edith, did you
ever love?" said he, quickly turning his discourse toward the gentle
girl, who stood, regarding attentively the faces of the speakers, as if
she hardly comprehended their words.
"No," answered she, innocently.
"Heaven grant you never may," said her mother, fervently; "come, my
child, let us seek the quiet of our own apartment."
Edith threw her arm affectionately round the wasted form.
"Good-night, uncle," said she, and they all disappeared.