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While his children were occupied with the preceding conversation, Col.
Malcome had donned his fur-lined overcoat and stepped across the yard to
Deacon Allen's cottage. The good people were quite embarrassed to behold
so smart a visitor in their unostentatious little parlor, but the
colonel, by his gentlemanly grace, soon placed them at their ease. After
a few moments' conversation on general topics, he asked, casually enough,
who was the owner of the fine mansion he had noticed in his rambles about
town, with the appellation "Summer Home" sculptured on its marble
gateway?

"O, that is Major Tom Howard's!" answered Deacon Allen. "His family have
made it their abode for six or eight months every season since they owned
it; and I understand, after their next return, it is to become their
permanent residence."

"'Tis a delightful location," remarked Colonel M.; "a very large mansion.
Has Mr. Howard a family corresponding with its dimensions?"

"O, no, only a wife and one child--a beautiful girl."

"How old is his daughter?" inquired the colonel.

"Well, about fourteen I should say; but seems much older from her matured
growth and manners."

"Has Mr. Howard no sister living with him?" asked the visitor,
carelessly.

"No," answered the deacon.

"And has he not lost one?"

"Not since he came among us; though his wife, I have understood, always
dresses in black. She is a confirmed invalid and seldom seen."

"Then the family do not mingle much in society?" said the colonel.

The deacon shook his head.

"Somewhat aristocratic, probably," remarked the visitor.

"I should judge so," said the deacon. "They don't send Florence to
school, but keep three tutors for her at home. She is very accomplished,
but rather wilful and proud, they say."

"The effect of over-indulgence, perhaps," said the colonel, rising.

"Will you not honor us with another call?" asked Mrs. Allen.

"With pleasure," answered he, bowing a graceful good-morning to his
delighted entertainers.

CHAPTER IX.

"A vestal priestess, proudly pure
But of a meek and quiet spirit;
With soul all dauntless to endure
And mood so calm that naught can stir it,
Save when a thought most deeply thrilling
Her eyes with gentlest tears is filling,
Which seem with her true words to start
From the deep fountain of her heart."

The fine parlors of Mr. Leroy Edson's tasteful mansion were brilliantly
illuminated. Warm fires glowed in the shining marble grates. Dim argand
lamps bathed in soft light the rich furniture, carved cornices, and rare
statuary which decorated the mantels. The elite of Wimbledon were
assembling, and young Mrs. Edson moved lightly to and fro, receiving her
numerous guests with graceful self-possession, and welcoming them to her
home and heart with warm, earnest cordiality. They were nearly all
strangers to her, as she had been but a few months installed mistress of
Mr. Edson's splendid mansion; but she felt they were the people among
whom she was henceforth to live and find her associates and friends. She
had made one call, only, since her arrival in Wimbledon, and that on Col.
Malcome's family, who were later comers than herself.

Louise Edson was graceful, brilliant, beautiful. O, what a wealth of
thought and intellect was hers; what a broad, generous nature; what
lightning-like perceptions, quick, far-seeing judgment, sparkling humor
and sarcastic wit! She floated in a sea of exuberant life and beauty,
which was fed continually from the exhaustless fountains of her own
thought-wealthy soul. Her calm, clear eyes mirrored the bright fancies
that flitted through her brain. The chestnut hair, brushed away from the
youthful brow, revealed the tiny blue veins on the white expanding
temples; while the high, straight nose and curved nostrils, with the
sweet little mouth and tapering chin that smiled below, made up a face
whose regular features were its least claim to beauty. It was the soul
within which shone over these features and lighted them at times with
supernatural loveliness. And was this brilliant being understood and
appreciated by the man who had won her for his bride? Faugh!--we blush at
our own stupidity in asking the question. Are such lofty souls ever
appreciated by even one of the swarming masses that people the earth with
their corporeal bodies? Let those answer who can.

But Louise, soaring as was her nature, was yet cursed with that weakness
which too often possesses souls like hers, swaying e'en a more tyrant
sceptre than in meaner breasts, as though in envious hate of those
sky-aspiring pinions, and a demon wish to make them lick the dust. She
was an orphan, with no relative save a maiden aunt, with whom she dwelt.
She felt alone in the wide world, and she wanted--O, pity her, reader, if
you can!--she wanted somebody to lean on, somebody to look up to. Could
she not lean on her own strong intellect, and look up to the stars?--or
could she not breathe forth her rich-laden soul in lofty song and
romance, and lean upon the pillars of a world-wide fame? No, O, no! With
all her strength of soul and intellect, she had weak woman's heart. She
must love and be loved; and when the wealthy Mr. Leroy Edson knelt, an
enamored knight, at the shrine of her youth and beauty, she gave him her
hand. He thought he had done a most generous deed in thus raising a poor,
lone orphan girl from comparative obscurity to a position among the
highest circles of society. Her superior education and gem-freighted soul
were all the fortune she brought him; a fortune greater than the
treasures of Ind., but of whose princely value he had not the power to
form the most distant estimate. To behold her tall, graceful figure
flitting through his elegant mansion, performing some light household
duty, receiving her guests or chatting and singing gayly through the long
evenings, was, to him, life's whole of happiness. And was Louise
altogether content with the man of her choice? No, or she had not
gathered Wimbledon about her to make merry the midnight hour. People do
not give fetes to display their happiness. They give them too often to
relieve a tedious monotony, to silence a gnawing discontent, and forget
for the moment in hilarious excitement some uneasy foreboding of evil to
come, or disquieting conviction that all, even now, is not as it should
be.

Louise had not been many weeks Mrs. Edson, before she discovered the man
she had taken for "better or worse" till death should separate them, was
no helpmeet for her. They had not a thought or sympathy in common. He
hired servants to execute her commands; bought her fine clothes, and fine
books too, when he found these latter most delighted her; but he never
wished to hear her read from them, and invariably yawned if she spoke of
literary subjects. He was good-natured and fond of display, with a fair
estimate of his own importance and standing in society. He regarded
himself as one of the pillars of Wimbledon's wealth and
prosperity;--remove him, and the whole structure would tremble and
perhaps go down with a crash to rise no more. It took but a brief time
for Louise to read her husband's soul through and through; and with her
sharp, critical nature, that could not understand and would not overlook
faults and follies to which her bosom was a stranger, she decided she had
_married a fool_. What was to be done? The act was voluntary on her
part. True, a longer acquaintance between the parties might have led to
a different result, but it was too late to think of that now. And this
was the end of all her heart-longings for some one to love and
reverence, to lean on and look up to! O, how intense was her agony! All
her fine feelings wasted, her soul's wealth poured idly forth, and her
rich life in its blooming years given to one who could not understand
one of her lofty dreams or soaring aspirations. A falcon with sun-daring
eyes tied to a grovelling buzzard! Was't not a hard fate, reader? Pity
her, all ye who can,--pity her a great deal; mourn over her cruel wreck
of happiness; and if in future years the warm, impassioned nature,
goaded by its own unuttered pangs, driven wild by its rayless, hopeless
desolation, is guilty of some irregularities, some acts which virtue and
propriety can hardly sanction, O, remember her early sufferings, and be
merciful!

Mr. Edson's party passed off pleasantly. All seemed delighted with their
entertainment. The lord of the mansion was in great good-humor, and his
beautiful wife the star of the evening. In a simple robe of dark blue
cashmere, which fastened low over her white, sloping shoulders, and
fitted closely her slender waist, while the ample folds swept the rich
tapestry carpets, she moved among her guests like the embodiment of a
graceful thought. Her luxuriant brown hair was gathered in bands at the
back of her head; a massive chain and cross of gold ornamented her
swan-like neck, and bands of the same material clasped her round, white
arms. Small wonder that Mr. Edson should feel proud of his wife. The
whole evening she was the centre of a delighted group. All flocked around
to hear her brilliant conversation and gaze on her animated, expressive
features. Col. Malcome and the gentle Edith engaged a large share of her
attention and regard. The young girl was insensibly attracted by the
affectionate interest evinced in her manner, and the sweet voice and
beaming smile with which she addressed her. Col. Malcome expressed his
admiration of the exquisite taste displayed in the furnishing of her
parlors.

"I cannot tell you, Mrs. Edson," said he, "what I most admire in your
elegant drawing-rooms. They are one harmonious whole; but if you were
removed, I think I would very soon discover what was wanting to render
them complete."

"Now," said Louise, "let me tell you at the commencement of our
acquaintance, which I hope for my humble sake may continue to be
cultivated, that I detest flattery of all things;" and she turned a
smiling glance on him, as these piquant words fell from her pretty, red
lips, rendered more than usually charming by the slight sarcastic curl
she gave them.

"So do I," returned he; "but truth is not flattery."

"In the language of the poet," said she, laughing, "I will not seek to
cope with you in compliment. Do you know I feel a lively interest in your
beautiful daughter?"

"I am gratified to know it," said he, glancing on the bright creature at
his side with an expressive glance. "Edith is a timid little thing; she
would improve under your accomplished tuition. Not that I have the
presumption to ask for her your care and instructions beyond what she
might receive by a neighborly interchange of visits."

"O, say she may spend a portion of every week with me, when spring opens
and the earth is divested of its garb of snow!" said Louise, in a tone of
affectionate eagerness. "You cannot tell how her innocent gayety would
lighten many of my weary hours."

Col. Malcome started as he heard these words, and turned a searching
glance upon her. A slight blush suffused her cheek for a moment, but she
soon regained her self-possession. It was one of her faults to give too
free, unrestrained expression to her thoughts. They came welling up to
her lips, and escaped ere she was aware.

For several moments he continued to gaze on her, and there was something
in his countenance that instantly revealed to her quick eye that he had
not only believed in the weariness she had so thoughtlessly expressed,
but had also fathomed its cause. She felt displeased and irritated at her
own want of caution and what she silently termed his presumption.

"Why do you look on me so strangely?" she asked at length.

"I beg your pardon, madam," said he, suddenly averting his gaze.

"Which I shall not give," returned she, with a slight, dignified movement
of her queenly head, "unless you tell me what you think of me."

"_All_ I think of you, Mrs. Edson," said he, turning his face again
toward hers, "perhaps would not please you to know."

"Yes, all," said Louise, "I will know all."

"Well, this is not the time or place for the disclosure," answered he.

She looked at him sharply as he pronounced these words. He smiled and
added, "I should be monopolizing the time which belongs to your company."

"Ay, yes!" said she, "your words recall the duty I owe to my
condescending guests;" and, bowing, she glided away and joined a company
that surrounded the piano.

"You play, of course, Mrs. Edson," said a portly man with a benevolent
countenance.

"Occasionally, though I have rather a dull ear," she answered, assuming
the music-stool. Several light songs were performed with fine taste and
skill, and received the warmest encomiums of her listeners. Another and
another was called for, till at length she arose and said, "There are
doubtless others here who play far better than myself. I have led the
way, let them follow."

Col. Malcome arose from a sofa near by, on which he had thrown himself to
listen to the fair musician, and assumed the seat she had vacated. A few
prolonged notes, and then one of the most beautiful and intricate
compositions of Beethoven, poured its sonorous strains on the ears of the
assembly. The performer at length seemed to forget all around him, and at
the end of the second chorus joined his own deep, rich tones with the
instrument. All were delighted; but Louise, with her quick sensibilities,
was thrilled to the centre of her soul. And she felt piqued and angry
too; not that he had excelled her, for she was above such small envy,
but----she could not tell why.

The party dispersed, and she found herself again in the solitude of her
own apartment. That swelling chorus rolled through her midnight dreams,
and echoed in her ears for many a day, as she superintended her domestic
affairs, or sat down to the perusal of some treasured volume.

CHAPTER X.

"I tell thee, husband, 'tis a goodly thing,
To get a daughter married off your hands,
And know she's found an easy-tempered mate;
For many men there be in this rude world.
Who do most shockingly abuse their wives;
But of their number is not this mild youth
Who takes our daughter for his wedded bride."

Young Mrs. Edson's party was a three days' wonder. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles,
inasmuch as she was excluded from being one of the guests, availed
herself of the next choicest privilege, and learned, as far as she was
able, the dresses and conversation of those in attendance; and how Mrs.
E. comported herself, and what she cooked for supper. She was shocked to
learn the young wife wore a low-necked dress, and set her down at once as
a low, vulgar woman, in whose company she should consider it a disgrace
to be seen. Mrs. Pimble said another milk-sop had come among them to fawn
and giggle in the face of the oppressor, man.

The Edson fete seemed to pave the way for others, and the winter season
passed gayly and pleasantly among the wealthier classes of Wimbledon.
Col. Malcome, his daughter, and Rufus, were present at all the social
gatherings; and, in fact, the colonel's was getting to be a familiar and
welcome face at almost every door in the village. He even called on Mrs.
Salsify Mumbles, one day, and addressed several civil speeches to the
interesting Mary Madeline, who blushed crimson beneath the glance of his
_unresistible_ eyes, as she termed them, and trembled like an aspen, in
her red silk gown. We do not know that we have ever spoken of the
personal charms of this blooming young lady, and we will now attempt a
brief daguerreotype for the reader's enlightenment and edification.

Her hair was of that peculiarly brilliant color noticed in that
delightful esculent vegetable, the carrot, when boiled and prepared for
table. She wore it twisted in a hard, horny knob at the top of her head,
which strained her blue-green eyes, and gave them the expression of those
of a choked grimalkin. Her nose turned divinely upwards; her blubber lips
turned downwards with a grievous, watery expression. Her cheeks were red;
so was her nose; so were her eyes at times, when the horny knob took a
harder twist than usual. She had small, hairy ears, ornamented with
enormous jewels. Her neck was short, and three stubborn warts, of the
size of peas, stuck to its left side. Her waist might have been admired
in the fifteenth century; but it was some nine inches too short by as
many too broad, to elicit the admiration of the gallants of the present
age, who rave, and go distracted about gossamer divinities scarcely six
inches in circumference. She was about four feet four in stature, and her
foot would have crushed Cinderella, and used her slipper for a thumb-cot.
Such was Mary Madeline Mumbles in her eighteenth year, and never was
child more like parent, than was this young lady like her doting,
affectionate mamma.

We have been at considerable trouble to sketch Miss Mumbles at full
length, that the reader may be able to form a correct idea of her
appearance when she steps forth in full glory of silken bridal attire, on
the arm of Mr. Theophilus Shaw, the promising young shoe-cobbler, upon
whom Mr. Salsify had long since set his heart, as the proper man to
become his future son-in-law. And Miss Mary, who lost her passion for
Dick Giblet, after he shut the watch-dog in the kitchen-pantry,--a trick
which had nearly cost her the loss of a beloved mother,--and finding she
could not captivate the handsome Colonel Malcome with checkered aprons
and broad lace, began, like a dutiful child, to receive the advances of
the mild Theophilus more graciously, and had, after much maidenly
confusion, consented to become his wife, when, as we have seen, the
uncompromising colonel called, and distracted her with fear lest she had
been too precipitate in accepting Theophilus, when a higher prize might
be on the point of falling into her arms. But her apprehensions were
banished after a while, as the colonel did not appear a second time, and
the marriage was finally consummated; and Mary Madeline Mumbles became in
due form Mrs. Theophilus Shaw. Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton officiated as
bridesmaids, and a large party were invited to make merry on the
occasion.

The bride's apparel was magnificent; so was the bridegroom's. We would
attempt to describe it in detail, but dare not, knowing well we should
fail to do it justice. Mrs. Salsify had the wicks of her parlor lamps
full half an inch in length, and never seemed to notice how swiftly the
camphene was disappearing, so elate was she with the prospect of marrying
her beautiful daughter.

The happy couple were to make a short bridal excursion, and then return
and dwell under the bride's parental roof for the present; Mrs. Salsify
having vacated her bed-room, which the young people were going to use for
kitchen, parlor, and shoemaker's shop. And a little pasteboard sign with
the words, "Theophilus Shaw, Boot & Shoe Maker," scrawled on it with
lampblack, in an awkward, school-boy hand, was suspended by a string from
the bed-room window.

"I am glad to have Mary Madeline settled in life," said Mrs. Mumbles,
after the arrangements were all complete; "and the matter off my mind."

"So am I," answered her husband; "and I am glad she has made so good a
match, too. Mr. Shaw will make a much better husband than Dick Giblet, or
that black-headed Col. Malcome."

"O, a better one than that scapegrace of a Dick, of course!" said Mrs.
Salsify, quickly; "but as to a better one than the colonel, I don't know
about that. The advantages of his position are very great. Maddie would
have been the tip-top of Wimbledon if she had married him."

"So she will be now, in time," returned Mr. S., confidently, "for I am
'rising rapidly in my profession.' Next summer I shall build the piazza
and second story, and in ten years I'd like to see the man that can hold
his head above Mr. Salsify Mumbles."

At these hopeful words, the wife fondly embraced her husband, and the
loving couple fell to forming plans and projects for their brilliant
future.

CHAPTER XI.

And yet this wild woods' man was happy once,--
Bright fame did offer him her richest dower,
But disappointment blasted all his hopes,
And crushed him 'neath her desolating power.

Cold and bleak roared the fierce wintry blasts through the broad, dense
forest that stretched away to the north of Wimbledon. The stars sparkled
with unwonted brilliancy over the clear blue firmament, as a quick step
crackled along the narrow, icy path, and a dark form was seen hurrying
toward a faint light that gleamed dimly through a dense clump of cedars.
Then there was a sound as of bars withdrawn, and a bright, blazing hearth
was revealed for a moment as the dark form entered, when all was hushed
and silent again, save the dismal roar of the night wind through the
surrounding pines.

"You are late to-night, uncle," said a tall, dark-haired youth, as he
undid the fastenings of the wanderer's long overcoat, and removed his
woollen mittens and wide-brimmed hat.

"What time do you conceive it to be?" asked the man, depositing his long
staff in a corner, and approaching the glowing fire.

"Past midnight, I would suppose," answered the boy, piling up a quantity
of books that were scattered over a small table, and with which he had
been occupying himself through the long evening hours.

"O, not so late as that!" returned the man, drawing a rude chair before
the fire and extending his small, thin hands to the grateful blaze. "The
village clock in the old church tower at Wimbledon was on the stroke of
ten when I laid my bundle of sticks in their accustomed place, and set my
face homewards. I must have travelled at a laggard pace, if it is already
midnight. Are you lonesome when I'm away, Edgar?" inquired he, turning
his deep, melancholy eyes on the fair, open countenance of the youth.

"Sometimes I am," returned he; "I have been so to-night. A strange power
seemed to possess my thoughts, to lead them through most hideous scenes,
and dark, awful glooms and shadows enveloped my soul in mazes of doubt
and fear."

"What a nervous boy you are!" said the man, "come and sit beside me, and
I'll tell you of a project I've been revolving in my mind these several
days." Edgar did as requested, and after a brief silence the hermit
commenced:

"These six months, my lad, you have dwelt in this little hut in the
forest, holding intercourse with no human being save myself. It is not
right your boyhood and youth should pass in this manner. I have been
selfish in keeping you all to myself, to cheer my solitude. 'Twas your
parents' dying wish that you should receive all the advantages of
education and travel. Your life has been, for the most part, spent in the
toil of study, and I knew you needed an interval of relaxation and
retirement to reinvigorate your mental and physical energies. So I
brought you to share the seclusion of my hermitage for a while. Grateful
as has been your presence to me, I should wrong you, and forfeit the
promise given your parents on their deathbeds, if I encouraged or
permitted this retirement for a longer period than is necessary for your
restoration to health and vigor. You know I am your guardian, Edgar. The
fortune left for you by your father was entrusted to my care till you
should attain a suitable age to have it transferred to your own hands,
and ample provisions were made for your education and instruction in the
painter's art. Do you see what I am coming at, Edgar?" he added, pausing
in his discourse, and directing his gaze toward the boy, who sat
listening attentively to his uncle's words.

"No, Uncle Ralph," answered the lad; "I don't know as I do, unless you
are going to send me away from you to some distant school;" and his voice
trembled as he spoke.

"Would you dislike to leave me, my boy?" said the hermit, a tear dropping
from his melancholy eye.

"Ah, that would I!" returned Edgar, "for I have none to care for me in
the wide world, save you."

"Pshaw, pshaw, boy! don't prate in that way, with your bright, curly
locks," said the man, laying his thin hand softly on the youth's light,
clustering hair. "When these locks are gray, and you have toiled and
labored for fame and honors never gained, or that burned and furrowed the
brow that wore them; when you have engaged in the world's weary strife
and sunk by the wayside worn and disheartened by the contest; when
friends have proved false;"--here the hermit's voice grew deeper and more
vehement--"and when those who professed for you the fondest love turn
coldly away to mock and scorn at your deep devotion, then, then, my boy,
you will exclaim in bitterness, 'there are none to care for me!'"

He paused, and bowed his face on his hands. Edgar longed to comfort him,
but knew not what to say.

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