Eventide

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'And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood and heart and brain,
I would give, to call the affluence of that moment back again,
Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,
Ay, an hundred sheaves of sceptres, ay, a planet's gathered crowns,'

"But I must not write thus, lest I grow ungrateful for the mercies of a
gracious Providence. Let me thank my God for his remembrance in the hour
of sorest need, and lie down to slumber."

She closed her book, and, dropping softly on her knees before the low
curtained couch, leaned her young head, with its dark, clustering curls,
against the white cushions, and remained several moments in silent
prayer. Then rising, she closed the casements and retired to rest.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

"Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd should fly from thee, thy home is still here.

* * *

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in thy heart;
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"

A graceful form bent over a printed page, and by the light of a waxen
taper, devoured its startling contents. Ah, how awfully startling to the
reader! for it was Louise Edson poreing over the disclosures of Col.
Malcome's wickedness and crime. But, as she drew toward the close, a
sudden ray of light struggled through the anguish and misery which had
cast her features into utter darkness, when her eye first lighted on the
glaring capitals of the criminal's name. Concealing the paper which
contained the fearful tale of his guilt, she hastened to her own
apartment.

As the shades of the following evening drew on, a female figure, wrapped
in a large shawl, with her features closely veiled, stood at the iron
door of the huge, black jail, and besought an entrance.

"Who do you wish to see?" demanded the jailer, in a coarse, rough tone,
seeking to penetrate the veil with his impertinent eyes.

She breathed a low word in his ear. The man started.

"Is it possible you wish to behold a wretch like him?" exclaimed he.

The lady drew up her slight form with an air of dignity, and said,
"Deliver my message, and bring me his answer!"

Awed by her manner, the jailer hastened his steps to obey her command.

The door of a gloomy cell on the second floor of the huge building
opened with a harsh, grating sound, and the man stepped in and secured
the door behind him. The prisoner, who was sitting beside a table, with
pen and paper before him, turned round and fixed his eyes upon the
intruder. "What do you want?" asked he. "When you use double bolts and
bars to secure me, is it necessary to come every hour to see if I have
not escaped?"

"I have not come to satisfy myself of your safety," returned the jailer,
scowling on the speaker. "There's a woman at the outer door who wants to
know if you will grant her a brief interview."

The prisoner started abruptly at these words. "What is her name?"
demanded he, quickly.

"I do not know," answered the man. "She did not tell me; but she seemed
mighty impatient for an answer to her request."

The prisoner bowed his head and sat in silence several moments. At
length he said, "Bring her in! I have a curiosity to know what woman
would penetrate these walls to seek an interview with me."

The jailer disappeared. In a few moments footsteps were heard along the
dark passage, a female form was ushered into the cheerless apartment,
and the lock turned harshly upon her. Then a white hand was laid lightly
on the bright curling locks of the bowed head, and a low voice whispered
in the ear of the incarcerated man, "It is a pitiful heart that forgets
a friend in adversity."

"Louise!" said the prisoner, shrinking away with evident pain from her
touch. "Why are you here?"

"To cheer you,--to comfort you," said she, earnestly regarding his pale,
handsome features.

But he turned away from her gaze, shaking his head mournfully. "This is
the deepest humiliation I have yet endured," he said, while a creeping
shudder convulsed his frame. "To feel those clear eyes fastened upon me,
piercing through and through my soul, and reading all the guilt and
crime that's written there. O, Louise! was it not enough to drive me, by
your unrelenting scorn and bitterness, to commit the act which has
brought me here, without seeking to torment your victim by penetrating
his dungeon to mock at the misfortune your own cruelty occasioned?"

He raised his pale, distressed face imploringly to hers as he ceased to
speak; but she started back from her position at his side, and with an
angry accent said, "I do not understand how any fell influence of mine
should cause you to break the heart of an innocent woman by your guilty
conduct with another."

"I did not seek to refer the blame of those early sins to any influence
of yours," he answered. "How could I, when they were committed before
your birth? In the very dust I acknowledge those deeds of villany and
vileness. But too late is my grief and repentance. The blow has fallen,
and my doom is fixed."

He leaned his arms forward upon the table, and, sinking his head upon
them, uttered a low groan of hopeless, despairing misery.

Tears sprang to Louise's eyes, and, approaching, she dropped on her
knees at his side, and laid her hand on his arm, "Do you remember a
promise I gave you long ago?" she asked softly. "If I have seemed
forgetful, let me renew it now."

He still retained his attitude of dejection, and seemed regardless of
her pleading tones.

"You will not hear me," she said at length, in a voice broken with
grief, "when I kneel at your feet and ask your pardon."

"_You_ kneel to _me_!" said he, suddenly grasping her arm and striving
to raise her from the humble position. "Rise, I entreat, if you would
not drive me mad!"

She stood before him, with tears falling fast from her beautiful eyes.
"Who is the cruel one now?" she asked. "Who throws me aside and refuses
forgiveness when it is repentantly implored?"

"What signifies the pardon of a wretch like me?" said he, in a tone of
agony. "What is he? what can he be to you?"

Turning her head aside, she said in a soft, trembling voice, "He is what
he has ever been, and still may be,--my world of love and happiness!"
Her cheeks flushed, as, lifting her eyes, she encountered his earnest
gaze. She sought to move away, but he was by her side. "Louise! Louise!"
said he, in a tone of thrilling emotion, "Dare I hope that you love me
still?"

There was no word; but she put her arm round his neck and sank weeping
on his bosom. He pressed her again and again to his heart. "Ah, indeed!"
said he, at length, "this is the luxury of woe. To know at last this
love is mine, and be separated forever from its dear embraces by the
cold walls of a prison. Stern justice can inflict no pang like this."

"Talk not of separation," said she, lifting her head, and revealing a
face redolent with happiness. "No hand shall take me from you save the
hand of death!"

He gazed with unspeakable tenderness on her glowing features, and said
sorrowfully, "My wickedness does not deserve this angel-comforter. Why
did you withhold this blessed consolation when the world smiled brightly
on me?"

"To bestow it when the world had cast you off," said she; "to think of
you at your best, when it had made your name a by-word and reproach."

He pressed his lips tenderly to the white, upturned brow, and drew her
to a seat. A half-hour passed in low, earnest conversation, when the
grating of the iron key aroused them, and Louise had only time to draw
her veil over her features when the jailer entered. "I am ready to
follow you," she said, advancing toward him.

He held the heavy door asunder, and, with one lingering glance on the
form of the prisoner, she went forth and followed her guide through the
dark passages, and down the steep flights of stairs. He unlocked the
street-door, and she stepped lightly forth beneath the light of the
stars.

CHAPTER XLIX.

"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.

CHAPTER L.

"We leave them at the portal
Of earthly happiness;
We pray the power immortal
May hover o'er to bless;
And strew their future pathway
With flowers of peace and love,
Till death shall call their spirits
To Eden realms above."

When "Summer Home" rose complete in its beautiful architectural design,
with its wealth of foliage and flowers all in wildest, richest
profusion, a young bride walked under the trailing vines which overhung
the marble-supported terrace, and a manly form at her side opened the
hall door and ushered her into the magnificent drawing-rooms. It was
Florence Lindenwood.

Then a carriage came rolling up the long avenue of cedars, conveying
Major Howard, his sister, Edith, and Sylva, with the lap-dog and pet
canaries in her care, to the newly-completed mansion. What a regal home
they entered, and how proud and happy were their beaming faces!

The day was passed with a social group of friends, among whom Ned
Williams, his sister Ellen, and young Willie Danforth, were the most
lively and mirthful. At night-fall the hermit appeared, and was warmly
received. He sat down by aunt Mary, and conversed calmly, as was his
wont.

Florence glanced about the apartment in search of her husband, wondering
that he did not come forward to welcome his uncle, but he had
disappeared. She flew up stairs to their apartment, and beheld him
sitting before a table, apparently absorbed in the contents of some
volume. Stepping softly forward, she leaned over his shoulder. He was
reading her journal.

"Thief!" she exclaimed, covering the page with her little white hands,
"where did you find this?"

"It attracted my notice this morning when I was packing your books for
removal," returned he. "I did not know I was so well loved before,
Florence," he added, with a provoking smile.

"Look out that I do not cease to love you altogether," said she, shaking
her tiny finger playfully in his face, "if you steal into my private
affairs in this way. But come below now," she continued, taking his
hand; "uncle Ralph has arrived and waits to see you."

They descended to the parlor, and after the pleasant evening was passed
and the guests severally departed, the hermit presented to his nephew
the fortune left him by his long-deceased father. It was much larger
than Edgar had ever supposed. He amply remunerated the care and
protection of his kind guardian, and besought him to forsake the
forest-hut and dwell beneath his grateful roof. But the recluse waived
the entreaties of the young, happy couple.

He "could not desert his home in the cedars. It was the spot where the
most placid years of his life had been passed. He would frequently visit
the abode of Edgar, and also that of his lately-recovered sister, but
still chose to retain the wild-wood habitation as a retreat when
melancholy moods rendered him unfit for all society, and he could only
find consolation in the lone solitude of nature."

So, with a fervent blessing on their bright young heads, he departed on
his solitary way to the distant forest.

And the starry night stole on, while all was quiet and peaceful above
and around the mansion of "Summer Home."

THE LAST CHAPTER.

"Let's part in friendship,
And say good-night."

Shadowy-vested romance, that whilom roamed the grassy paths and
flower-strewn ways of Wimbledon, is wrapping the heavy folds of her
dew-moistened mantle around her, and stealing silently away. Yet for a
moment let her turn a parting glance toward the motley groups which have
companioned her midnight rambles, and are seen passing in the distance
with their eyes fixed steadily on her receding form.

Foremost in the crowding phalanx we mark the firm, upright figure of Mr.
Salsify Mumbles, and his commanding aspect and majestic tread assure us
that he has "risen in his profession" to the airy summit of his most
ambitious aspirations. We fancy another story has crowned his mansion,
and a second piazza stretched its snowy palings around its painted
walls. Beside him is his amiable wife, with the sweet baby Goslina, in a
robe of dimity, pressed close to her affectionate shoulder, quackling
softly as they pass along.

Close behind is Mary Madeline and her tender spouse, a hand of each
given to their hopeful son, who, ever and anon, turns his mites of eyes
up to his parents' faces and utters a piercing squeal.

Then Miss Martha Pinkerton comes primly on, with Mrs. Stanhope at her
side, who turns often with a friendly glance toward a happy-seeming
couple that walk apart, as if their chief enjoyment was in each other's
society.

"You have rescued and redeemed me," whispered a manly voice in the ear
of the graceful figure which leaned so confidingly on his arm.

"Let us forget the past and be happy," said his companion, lifting her
clear eyes to his eloquent face.

Their forms faded from our vision, and the pleasant reverie into which
we were sinking to weave fair garlands, to crown their future years, was
rudely broken by a ranting bustle and confusion. Philanthropy was
sweeping past.

Mrs. Pimble, in nankin bloomers, with pert Susey clinging to the hem of
her brief skirt, stalked on with angry stride, vociferating at the top
of her voice.

Mrs. Lawson towered indignantly at her side, joining in wrathful
denunciations of the tyrant man; and fair, persecuted Dr. Simcoe's
assenting voice was faintly heard amid the fiendish shrieks of those
pestiferous younglings, Simcoe's children.

We knew by their ireful aspects some dreadful peril had menaced the
cause of Woman's Rights, and while we gazed, their clamor increased to
furious yells of rage and defiance, and a dark, descending cloud hung
threateningly over their wrathful heads as they passed along.

On their vanishing shadows Mr. Pimble clappered his heelless slippers,
with the long skirts of his palm-figured wrapper streaming on the air
behind him; like the grim ghost of manhood pursuing its flying
aggressors.

Then Florence, like a beam of light, danced past on the arm of Edgar,
and a merry, laughing group followed quickly in their rear, among which
we recognized the tall, portly form of Major Howard, smiling benignly on
the happy faces around him.

But we looked in vain for the thin, bowed figure of his grief-stricken
sister. There were two willow-shaded graves in the grass-grown
church-yard, and o'er them bent the spectre-like form of the Hermit of
the Cedars, his gray locks moistened by the falling night-dews, and his
pale face turned upward to the midnight stars with an expression of
mournful resignation.

As the clock in the ivy-hung steeple tower rang forth its echoing chimes
on the odorous air, we cast one glance toward the swiftly-vanishing
groups, and silently turned away.

Cold and bitter on our long-wrapped senses strike the harsh, blunt-edged
realities of every-day existence. The multiplied images which but
yesterday peopled our brain and thronged on our notice, have "departed
thence, to return no more."

The last sound of their multitudinous voices has died in the distance,
and Wimbledon is to us as if it had never been.

SCRAGGIEWOOD;

A

TALE OF AMERICAN LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

"Sweetly wild
Were the scenes that charmed me when a child;
Rocks, gray rocks, with their caverns dark,
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark;
Torrent voices thundering by,
When the pride of the vernal floods swelled high,
And a quiet roof, like the hanging-nest,
'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foliage drest."

October's harvest-moon hung in the blue ether. Brightly fell her golden
beams on the tall, old forest trees, that pointed spar-like toward the
starry heaven, and down, through their interlacing branches, upon gray,
mossy rocks and uprooted trunks, over which wild vines wreathed in
untrained exuberance; and dim, star-eyed flowers reared their slender
heads among the rank undergrowth of bush and shrub.

And here, in this primeval wildness, her silver beams revealed a low,
thatched cottage standing in a narrow opening. Its walls were built of
rough stones, piled one upon another in a rude, unartistical manner; and
the heavy turf roof, which projected far over the sides, was sunken and
overgrown with moss and lichens.

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