Eventide
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Effie Afton >> Eventide
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Col. Malcome flung wide the doors of his elegant mansion to receive the
suffering family who, in the space of a few short hours, had lost their
all of earthly wealth by the subtle element of fire. The invalided Mrs.
Howard was borne on a litter to an apartment so warm and complete in its
arrangements, as to almost wear the appearance of having been fitted up
expressly to receive her in her forlorn and unsheltered condition.
Large, richly-furnished rooms, all glowing bright in their luxurious
comforts, were also in readiness for Florence and her father. The latter
was nearly overwhelmed with grief and dismay at his sudden and
irremediable loss. Col. Malcome strove by every means in his power to
assuage and lighten his sorrows.
"My house is your home as long as you choose to make it so, Major
Howard," said he one morning after the afflicted family had been several
weeks partakers of his generous hospitality.
"I cannot consent to burden you with my family any longer than while I
can find some place to which I can remove them," answered he. "And then
I must engage in some kind of business to provide for their support.
This unfortunate accident has given my wife so dreadful a shock, I fear
she will not long survive it."
A significant smile appeared for a moment on Col. Malcome's features at
these latter words, but he concealed it from the distressed man, and
replied, "It grieves me to hear you talk thus. Why should you regard
your family as burdensome guests beneath my roof, when we are soon to be
linked in the ties of relationship by the union of our children?"
"True!" returned Major Howard. "Such a union has been proposed, but----"
"But what?" asked Col. M.
"You may not look as favorably on its consummation now as formerly."
"Judge not so meanly of me, my friend!" said he, warmly. "Your
daughter's rich soul and personal charms are all the wealth I desire in
the lady who shall become the wife of my son."
Major Howard was silent.
"I do not wish to hasten this marriage," resumed the colonel, "because
you expressed a desire, several months ago, that it should be delayed
till a change occurred in your wife's situation (a strange emphasis on
the word _wife_); but were it consummated, your family could occupy
one-half of my mansion with no expense to me till Rufus should rebuild
the one you have recently lost by fire."
Major Howard's face suddenly brightened. The colonel saw he had made a
hit, and followed up his advantage so adroitly that e'er the twain
parted, the father had consented that the marriage between his daughter
and the colonel's son should take place within four weeks. He sought his
daughter and communicated the intelligence. Florence received it in
silence. She felt they were without a home in the wide world, and at the
mercy of the man under whose roof they were sheltered. A strange horror
was seizing upon her soul and bowing her spirits to the earth. There
were many looks and glances around her she could not understand; but
they seemed possessed of some dark and hidden meaning. Hannah Doliver's
glee knew no bounds. She followed Rufus from morning till night, and
appeared uneasy if he was a moment beyond her sight. The young man
returned her fondness with hatred and contempt. Edith, with her pale,
wan face and sunken eyes, looked the mere shadow of her former self.
During her long illness, her beautiful head had been shorn of its ripply
wealth of auburn curls, and, as she lay languidly on the soft cushions
of her luxuriant couch, few would have recognized in that wasted form
the once radiant Edith Malcome. She had a feverishness and uncertainty
of temper common to long-confined invalids. Florence could find little
companionship in her society; besides, she was too weak to endure the
excitement of laughter and conversation.
Rufus sought his affianced bride at every opportunity; and the only
place where she could rest secure from his interruptions was the
apartment of her mother, where he never ventured to intrude, being
possessed of a strange fear and dread of sick people. He never visited
Edith, unless compelled to do so by his father.
Florence was one day sitting in the deep recess of one of the
drawing-room windows, with the massy folds of purple damask drooped
before her, occupied in the perusal of a book of poems, when a
succession of low, murmuring sounds near by, disturbed her, and
listening a moment she heard Col. Malcome say, in a smothered tone,
"There's no fear of detection; all moves on bravely, and we shall have a
blooming young bride here in a few weeks."
Then there was a low, chuckling laugh, which Florence recognized as
Hannah Doliver's. After a while the woman spoke in a stifled voice,
"Don't you want to see _her_?" she said. "I should think you would."
There was a slight malice in her tone, which appeared to irritate him
somewhat.
"I can wait very well till the ceremony is performed," he answered at
length. "Of course, she will appear at the marriage of her daughter." A
strange emphasis on the last word.
"But come," he added directly, "we must not linger here. Some of the
family may observe us."
Thus speaking, they passed out of the apartment, relieving Florence of
the fear with which she had been shaking during their whole conversation
lest they should discover her retreat in the window.
When they were gone, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed in a low, but
fervent tone, "Will no arm save me from the power into which I have
fallen?"
For several days she sought an opportunity to speak privately with her
father, but his attention was so incessantly occupied by Col. Malcome,
that none presented.
When at last she gained his ear, he laughed her suspicions to scorn, and
bade her never come to him with such an idle tale again.
The good-natured major was infatuated by, what he termed, the munificent
magnanimity of Col. Malcome, and, moreover, had been nurtured in
luxurious tastes, and the prospect of reinstating himself in an elegant
home by so easy a process as the marriage of his daughter, was too
desirable to be allowed to vanish lightly away.
CHAPTER XLII.
"And they dare blame her! they whose every thought
Look, utterance, act, hath more of evil in 't
Than e'er she dreamed of or could understand,
And she must blush before them, with a heart
Whose lightest throb is worth their all of life!"
In a neat, but scantily furnished apartment of a small, white cottage
sat Louise Edson beside the low window which looked forth on a great
frowning building with grated bars and ponderous iron doors.
"Is this a prison across the yard, aunt?" she asked of a tall, solemn
woman, in a black head-dress, who had just entered the room, and stood
laying some fresh fuel on the fire.
"It is the county jail," replied she.
"How it makes me shudder to look at it!" said Louise, turning from the
window, and assuming a chair near her aunt, who was taking a quantity of
sewing from a work-basket.
"It reminds me of a lady who was my near neighbor in Wimbledon, and who
has been my sole companion for several months, to see you constantly
occupied with your needle," remarked Louise, looking on her aunt as she
assorted her cotton and arranged her work.
"What is the lady's name, of whom you speak?" inquired the woman.
"Mrs. Stanhope," answered Louise; "she is a kind soul. It pains me to
think I shall never see her again."
"Do you not intend to return to your late home?" inquired the aunt,
somewhat surprised at the words of her niece.
"Never!" returned Louise, with strong emphasis, "I could not endure it."
"Pshaw! you will get over this weakness in a little while," said her
aunt. "You have half-conquered it by coming away, and you will complete
the victory by returning."
"I tell you no," said Louise, somewhat angered by her aunt's
persistence. "I have already written to Mr. Richard Giblet, one of the
former firm of Edson & Co., to settle my affairs in Wimbledon, dispose
of my late residence, and remit the proceeds to me in drafts."
The aunt looked astonished at this piece of intelligence, and said, "You
have been rash and premature, my child, and I fear will regret your
hasty proceedings."
"If you knew how much it relieved me to get out of that place, aunt, you
would not fear I should ever wish to return. I was so near my enslaver
there, and my heart said all the time, 'O, I _must_ see him!' while
conscience whispered sternly, 'You _dare_ not do it.' There was a
constant war 'twixt love and reason, which threatened the extermination
of the latter."
"I am glad you have been ruled by your better judgment," said her aunt;
"passion always leads us astray when we listen to its voice."
"That is very true," answered Louise; "but O that I had known it only by
precept, and not by experience!"
"Experience is called the best teacher," remarked the aunt.
"It is the most bitter one," returned Louise. "How I wish you had been
with me through the few brief years of my married life! With your kind
care and admonitions I think I would never have strayed darkly into sin
and error."
"We all err sometimes in our lives," said her aunt; "and I cannot
discover as you have wandered so far from the paths of rectitude that
your return to them should seem a thing impossible."
"But did I not tell you how I deceived my husband?" asked Louise,
looking wofully in the face of her aunt.
"Yes," returned she, calmly. "Did he never deceive you?"
Louise paused a few moments, and answered, "I _was_ deceived when I
married him, but it was by my own blindness. However, the deception did
not last long," she added, with a spice of her old spirit.
"And when it passed away," said her aunt.
"Don't recall those terrible hours to my mind," interrupted Louise,
quickly, "lest I should forget the double share of respect I owe the
dead in that I failed to give them their due on earth."
"I would not have the dead wronged," returned her aunt; "but I would
have the living righted. You used to be free and unrestrained in your
intercourse with me in the glad days of childhood and youth. I often
feared some envious sorrow would overtake you to chill and despoil that
buoyant exuberance of life and gayety. You were too wildly rich in heart
and soul. You wasted more love on a pet rabbit than would eke out the
whole passion life of a score of poorer natures. O, Louise, I trembled
when you stood before the altar and took the vows of faithfulness to Mr.
Leroy Edson. I knew you fancied that you loved him, and thought in the
wild potency of your passion to bear him skyward on your soaring
pinions; but, ah! I saw how sadly his clogging weight would drag you to
the earth."
She paused, and Louise was silent, but her face showed traces of tears.
"Do not think me severe," resumed her aunt; "I am only just. Now tell me
with your old-time confidence, why did you love another man while your
husband lived?"
"It was because,"---- Louise hesitated, and then added, "because I was
wicked."
"And for what other reason?" pursued her aunt.
"And because I was tired," Louise went on in a dreamy tone, as if
thinking aloud to herself, "and because I was hungry."
"Your expressions begin to assume the old, quaint, humorous form," said
the aunt smiling. "I suppose you mean your soul was tired for want of
something on which to rest, and hungry for want of its proper
nourishment."
"That's what I mean, aunt; but then I do not seek excuse for the crime
of stealing to appease the cravings of my hunger."
"A famishing man has never yet been hung for stealing to sustain life."
"You draw a strong comparison, aunt," said Louise, laughing in spite of
herself.
"To meet a strong case," returned she. "It is a duty I owe you to use my
best efforts to destroy this morbid melancholy which is preying on your
spirits. I know nothing of the man you have loved. He may or may not be
worthy of your affections. It is not his cause I plead. But I would
divest you of the false glasses through which your sensitive brain,
wrought on by high excitement, and shocked by a sudden calamity, has
come to regard the events of your past life, and let you behold them
again with your own natural sight. If I can effect this, I confidently
trust to your good reasoning powers to set all right again."
Louise remained silent after her aunt ceased speaking, but her
countenance evinced far more energy and hopefulness than at the
commencement of the conversation. At length she rose and said, "Well,
aunt, I think I have as much logic as my weak brain can digest in one
night, so I'll retire to my bed-room, if you please."
In a few weeks, young Mrs. Edson, under the tuition of her
strong-minded, sensible aunt, regained a share of her former vivacity,
and declared she would be quite herself again were it not for that great
black jail in the adjoining yard, which frowned on her every morning and
loomed dismally in her dreams.
CHAPTER XLIII.
"Ah, why
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone,
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow,
As not betraying their full import, yet
Disclose too much!
Disclose too much!--of what?
What is there to disclose?
A heart so ill at ease."
The preparations for the nuptials of Florence Howard with Rufus Malcome
were rapidly progressing.
The services of Dilly Danforth were put in active requisition. Day after
day her tall, thin form was seen moving to and fro the great mansion,
washing windows, polishing grates, and brightening the silver knobs and
plates of the mahogany doors. Col. Malcome, in his delight at the
approaching marriage of his son, resolved to give a large fete on the
occasion, and no pains were spared to render it the most costly and
sumptuous affair ever presented to the gaze of the people of Wimbledon.
The greatest expense was lavished upon the wedding-banquet, and the
young bride's trousseau might have vied in magnificence and profusion
with that of a royal princess.
All this display and grandeur was revolting to Florence. It humbled and
mortified her proud, independent nature to owe the expensive decoration
of her approaching bridal to the generosity of the man she was about to
marry.
Col. Malcome appeared in the most fitful spirits as the preparations
advanced toward their completion. He paced the piazzas for hours
together, with hurried, excited steps, pausing often and muttering
indistinctly to himself.
Sometimes he stood before a window in a dejected attitude, and gazed
mournfully over the intervening gardens and cottages toward the elegant
and stately mansion lately occupied by the Edsons, which stood on a
small elevation just across the river, in the midst of beautiful
grounds. Then, as he turned suddenly away, his countenance would change
from its expression of gloomy regret to one of fierceness and angry
revenge.
At length the night, whose morrow was to witness the long-expected
ceremony, drew on. Great torrents of rain were flooding the streets and
dashing dismally against the casements of the mansion which was, ere
long, to blaze in the light of the festive scene.
Still, Col. Malcome, unheeding the storm, walked the wet marbles of the
piazzas, with arms folded over his chest and head bowed, in a state of
absent, moody absorption. At length the hall-door opened, and Rufus
advanced to his father's side.
"What do you want with me?" said the colonel, turning quickly toward
him.
"Not much," returned the son. "I heard you walking here, and thought I
would join you, as there was no one in the house to keep me company."
"Where is Major Howard?"
"With his wife," answered Rufus.
"And Hannah?" continued the colonel.
"Don't mention that detestable creature!" said the young man angrily. "I
can't abide her. So she is out of my sight, I care not where she is."
"Why do you hate the woman so?" asked Col. M. "She seems very fond of
you."
"Yes! I cannot move but what she follows me. It is strange Major Howard
retains such a bold, impudent slut in his service."
The colonel coughed slightly and remained silent.
At length Rufus spoke again hesitatingly, "Father!" said he.
"Well!" returned Col. M., in a tone which indicated for him to proceed.
"I don't want to marry Florence Howard," said the young man, with a
great gulp, as though it cost him a mighty effort to pronounce the
words.
"Why not?" asked the father, apparently unheeding his son's emotion.
"Don't you love the girl?"
"Love her!" repeated Rufus. "I don't know whether I do or not; but I am
afraid of her."
"Afraid of a little, puny girl!" exclaimed Col. Malcome, in a towering
rage, "I did not think you such a pitiful craven."
The young man seemed angered by his father's words, but made no retort.
"Why are you afraid of her?" inquired the colonel after a while.
"Because she looks so proud and stern upon me, and treats me with such
scorn and contempt."
"O, never mind that!" said his father. "When she is once your wife trust
me to lower her loftiness, and make her as meek and humble as you could
wish. Let us go in now. How wildly this storm is driving! I hope it may
clear before the hour for the marriage arrives." Thus speaking, the
father and son entered the hall and sought their respective apartments.
While this scene was passing on the piazza, Florence sat in her room
with her journal open on the table before her.
"The last evening of my free, unfettered existence has drawn on," she
wrote. "How wildly shrieks the wind, driving great torrents of rain
against my curtained casements! It is fit a night like this should usher
in my day of doom. Father seems delighted with the approaching festival,
and mother has lost the dread she formerly evinced, which I now think
was occasioned by the fear of losing me from her side. Hannah is almost
wild with glee. She follows the steps of Rufus closely as his shadow. He
hates her, and in this one point our feelings sympathize, but in no
other. It is impossible to describe the loathing and abhorrence with
which I regard the man who in a few more hours will be my husband. O,
heavens! will no power save me from a fate so dreadful as a lifetime
passed with him? Alas, no! Our beautiful home is gone, and we are poor,
and had been shelterless but for these walls, which opened their doors
to take us in. And can I make so poor a return for this friendly
generosity, or so ungratefully scorn and reject the means presented to
reinstate my father in wealth and magnificence, as to refuse to perform
the act which will repay the kindness and restore to him the elegant
home whose loss he so deeply deplores? O, no! I must not be so selfish
and ungrateful. Still, it seems a great sacrifice even to insure a
father's ease and happiness. I have an increasing dread and horror of
this Col. Malcome, which I cannot overcome, despite all his apparent
generosity and sympathy in our misfortune, and lavish display of
profusion and splendor with which he surrounds this approaching bridal.
It seems to me all this munificence goes to serve some fell purpose of
his own. His strange power over my easy-natured father excites dark
apprehensions in my bosom. But why torture myself with imagined ills,
when the dread realities are sufficient to unnerve my soul! Now, amid
this piteous wailing of storm and wind, I write the last words on these
dear old leaves as Florence Howard, and betake me to my pillow,--but O,
not to sleep! The bride of to-morrow will make a sorry figure in her
silks and jewels."
CHAPTER XLIV.
"As Heaven is my spirit's trust,
So may its gracious power
Be near to aid and strengthen me
When comes the trial hour."
The hour drew on; the guests assembled, and the minister waited the
entrance of the bridal party to perform the solemn ceremony.
The storm drove wildly without the mansion, in strange contrast with the
glowing warmth and luxuriance of the apartments within.
Col. Malcome sat on a velvet sofa, in graceful attire, supporting the
wasted form of his daughter; who, thin, pale, and white as the garb she
wore, leaned her head, all shorn of its beautiful curls, heavily against
his shoulder. It was a sad sight to behold that feeble, emaciated figure
rising from a bed of disease and pain, to mingle among the festive
groups which filled those splendid drawing-rooms.
Suddenly there was a stir in the hall, and the bridal group entered.
Florence, with the tips of her gloved fingers just touching the arm of
the man who was in a few moments to become her husband, moved gracefully
to the seat assigned her. She was magnificently arrayed in rose-colored
satin, with an over-skirt of elegantly-wrought Parisian lace, and a
spray of pearls and diamonds flashed their brilliant rays through the
luxuriant dark curls that clustered round her pale, sweet brow, and fell
in rich profusion over her white, uncovered shoulders.
Rufus was arrayed in a glossy garb of the finest black broadcloth, with
a spotless vest of pearl-tinted satin, and immaculate white kids. His
dark visage, small, peering black eyes, and low-bred, clownish aspect,
contrasted strangely with the brilliant creature at his side.
The maids and groomsmen were in splendid attire, and looked proud and
delighted with the notice their position attracted from the assembled
groups.
Then came Major Howard, with a beaming countenance; his invalid lady,
who had summoned all her strength and fortitude to be present on the
occasion, leaning on his arm.
Col. Malcome rose politely and gave her a seat on the sofa beside his
daughter, assuming himself a chair on the opposite side of the room.
Hannah Doliver, in a very elaborate dress of gay plaided silk, her jet
black hair twisted into wiry ringlets, sat before her mistress, holding
a fan and silver vial, to serve the invalid's need, should the unusual
excitement produce a sudden nervous attack.
A significant glance was exchanged between Major Howard and Col.
Malcome, when the latter arose, and, bowing to the clergyman who was to
officiate on the occasion, said: "All is in readiness to proceed with
the ceremony."
The man of God came slowly forward, with a grave and solemn aspect. As
he was about to request the bridal group to rise, a stamping of heavy
feet on the piazza outside the windows arrested his words; and directly
the hall door was flung open with furious vehemence, and a party,
consisting of four tall, brawny men, in dripping hats and overcoats,
rushed into the apartment, leaving the door wide open behind them, with
the storm rushing in upon the assembly in its wildest fury.
Col. Malcome sprang to his feet, his face glowing with anger at this
most untimely and insulting intrusion.
"_Arrest that man!_" exclaimed the foremost of the strangers, pointing
his arm toward the form of the colonel, who stood glowering upon the
speaker with wrathful aspect.
"For what?" said Major Howard, leaping from his seat, as two strong men
rushed forward to execute the command.
"For destroying your buildings by fire, on the night of the twelfth of
January last," said the man who had ordered the arrest, whom the major
now recognized as the sheriff of the county.
"Prove your words! prove your words!" exclaimed Col. Malcome, darting
back from the grasp of the men who approached to imprison him.
"I am prepared to do so," returned the sheriff, motioning a tall, lank
form, in a long overcoat and broad-brimmed hat, which stood near the
door, to advance.
"You were in the grounds adjoining Major Howard's mansion on the night
of the twelfth of January last," said he, addressing the
singular-looking man, whose features were so entirely hidden by his
collar and hat-brim, as to be indiscernible.
The figure bowed low in token of assent.
"What did you see there?"
The _Hermit of the Cedars_ hesitated a moment, as if to collect his
thoughts, while the gaze of every person in the room was riveted upon
him, and a breathless silence reigned as he commenced to speak in a low,
measured tone of assurance and courage.
"I saw a man in dark clothes standing on the piazza of the doomed
mansion. A figure in female garb appeared from within, and, after a
brief, whispered conversation, left a small basket in his hand, and
retired whence she had come. Then the man, after glancing cautiously
around him, descended the steps and proceeded to light the fires. In
three different places the devouring element was kindled, and, as he
stooped to blow the light fragments with his breath, the flames suddenly
leaped forth and revealed in startling distinctness the face and
features of the incendiary. His hat had fallen to the ground and left
his head exposed, which was covered with a profusion of light, auburn
hair, clustering in short, thick curls around a high, pale forehead."
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