Eventide

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Mrs. Stanhope and Miss Martha burst into a cordial fit of laughter, as
Louise, with a good deal of spirit and sarcasm, delivered herself of the
preceding speech; and, before their merriment had subsided, a knock was
heard at the inner door, and Col. Malcome stepped in, bowing gracefully,
with a pleasant "Good-morning" to the three ladies. Mrs. Stanhope rose
and offered him a chair. Depositing a large package he held in his arms
on a corner of the sofa, he sat down.

Mrs. Edson blushed. She thought it was at being caught from home in
dishabille by a gentleman of the colonel's etiquette and high breeding.
After a few casual remarks upon the beauty of the morning, he turned his
discourse to her, and remarked:

"I am happy to meet you, Mrs. Edson; we are getting to be quite strangers
of late. Edith is lamenting that you do not honor us with more frequent
visits."

"I have often wished to call on your family, Col. Malcome," returned
Louise, in a calm, clear voice; "but since your daughter commenced
attending school, have desisted, lest I might inconvenience her."

"Edith does not go to the seminary after two o'clock," said he; "her
evenings are quite unemployed, and she would be highly gratified to
receive a call from you."

"I shall be pleased to call on her, and also to receive more frequent
visits from her. She has less to confine her at home than I; so her
visits should outnumber mine."

"Ay, yes; you speak sensibly, Mrs. Edson," returned he; "you have more
calls on your time than Edith. Strange I can never remember you are a
married woman."

"It would be well for you to remember it," said Louise, with a dignified
curve of her graceful neck, and slight addition of color, which very much
heightened her beauty.

"Mrs. Edson is so youthful in appearance," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, "I
think she might excuse one for forgetting she is a matron."

"I'll excuse you, Mrs. Stanhope," said Louise, rising; "I don't want to
be anything to you, but your little girl, and to run in here just when I
have a mind to, and to have you chide me when I do wrong, and love me
always, whether right or wrong. So good-morning," and, curtseying
gracefully, she glided from the room and retraced her steps to her own
mansion.

There was a silence of several minutes after she left, during which Col.
Malcome recollected his package, and, placing it on the table, politely
inquired if the ladies could oblige him by sewing a quantity of linen, of
which he should be in need in course of a few weeks, as he meditated
going a journey. They would be very willing to do it for him, could they
get it in readiness by the time he would want it; but they had a great
deal of unfinished work on their hands. Miss Pinkerton was confident they
could accomplish the colonel's, however.

"I am doubtful, Martha," said Mrs. Stanhope; "you know the large bundle
Mrs. Howard's waiting-woman brought in, last night."

"O, that can easily be put by," returned Martha.

"But Hannah said the major wanted it in a month at longest."

"Pshaw! that's a phrase of her own making. It sounds just like Hannah
Doliver's impertinent manner of expressing herself."

Col. Malcome gave a sudden start as Miss Pinkerton carelessly uttered
these words.

"What did you say was the name of Mrs. Howard's woman?" he demanded, with
an eagerness that astonished his hearers.

"Hannah Doliver," repeated Miss Martha; "do you know her?"

"No," said he, suddenly assuming an appearance of composure; "that is, I
think not; but I have frequently heard the name of Doliver before. How
long has she lived with Major Howard?"

"A great many years, I believe," answered Martha. "People hereabouts
wonder at their keeping the ill-tempered, arbitrary hussy. They say she
rules the whole house save Miss Florence."

"Ay; the young lady must have a spirit, then, I should judge, if she
defies such a virago as you describe this woman to be."

"No more spirit than she should have," returned Miss Pinkerton. "A sweet,
beautiful girl is Florence Howard as ever the sun shone upon."

"Ay, yes, indeed," interposed Mrs. Stanhope; "she used to call on us last
summer, when her embroidery teacher was away, to get Martha to assist her
in her tambour work; and I declare, I thought her the most lovable
creature I ever saw."

"I am told these Howards do not mingle much in society," remarked the
colonel carelessly.

"No," returned Mrs. S., "Mrs. Howard never goes out. She is a confirmed
invalid, and her disease inclines her to quiet and solitude. I don't
believe there's a woman in the village who has seen her in all the
seasons the family have passed at Summer Home."

"O, yes!" said Miss Martha. "Dilly Danforth, the washerwoman, saw her
once. When she was there a year ago this spring, putting the house to
rights, she cleaned the paint and windows of Mrs. Howard's room, and thus
got a sight at the invalid. She told me she was a pale, thin woman, with
a distressed expression of countenance. Her hair was nearly white, and
she looked much older than her husband."

Col. Malcome stood before a window with his back toward the ladies,
listening intently to their words.

"I have understood that Miss Florence is attending school at the seminary
this term," remarked Mrs. Stanhope, at length; "do you know if it is so,
Col. Malcome?"

"I think I heard Edith and Rufus say something to that effect," answered
he.

"I hope she will drop in and see us some day," said Miss Pinkerton. "She
and Mrs. Edson are great favorites of mine, and I doubt not your pretty
daughter would become one also, if I should get acquainted with her. We
are but humble people, but should be very happy to receive a call from
Miss Edith."

"Thank you," said the colonel; "'tis very possible she may some time
visit you, though she is rather timid and inclined to shrink from
strangers. Well, ladies, shall I leave my work?" he added, laying his
white hand on the package as he stepped toward the door.

"Yes," answered Miss Martha; "I will engage to have it ready in season
for you."

He bowed and withdrew. Miss Pinkerton peeped through the curtain, as he
walked down the garden path, and thought she had never beheld so handsome
and elegant a specimen of the genus homo.

CHAPTER XV.

"O, loveliest time! O, happiest day!
When the heart is unconscious, and knows not its sway;
When the favorite bird, or the earliest flower,
Or the crouching fawn's eyes make the joy of the hour,
And the spirits and steps are as light as the sleep
Which never has wakened to watch or to weep.
She bounds on the soft grass,--half woman, half child,
As gay as her antelope, almost as wild.
The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years.
She has never known pain--she has never known tears;
And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart;
The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."

L. E. L.

"Father!" said Florence Howard, the second day of her first vacation,
"had I not better study Latin next term?"

"Latin!" answered he in a tone of surprise, "why should you study that?"

"O, for discipline to my mind," returned Florence.

"I think you will find the acquirement of French and Italian sufficient
discipline," said he.

"O, but they are so easily learned! I want something more
difficult--something I have to study hard on."

"Why, you would be running to me to get your lessons for you half the
time!" said her father, laughing.

"No, I wouldn't," answered she, shaking her curly head cunningly. "Edgar
would assist me."

"Edgar! and who is he?" inquired Major Howard.

"Why, Edgar Lindenwood! You know him," returned she.

"No, certainly I don't know anything about him," said her father.

"Why, you have seen the tall boy with the morocco cap and light curls,
that used to walk to school with me last term!" said Florence, looking
earnestly in his face.

"O, yes! I have seen him frequently," returned Major H. "What do you say
is his name?"

"Edgar Lindenwood."

"And where does he live?"

"With his uncle."

"And who is his uncle?"

"The Hermit of the Cedars."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Major Howard. "And so, this young hermit is going
to teach you Latin, Miss Florence? Romantic, upon my word!"

"Edgar is not a hermit!" said Florence, pouting her red lips and assuming
an air of dignity which vastly amused her father. "He is brave,
and bright, and handsome, and, our preceptor says, already a finer
scholar than many a graduate from the university."

"Well, well; I cannot argue the merits of this favorite of yours,
Florence," said her father; "but I promise to give him a larger share of
my attention henceforth."

"I wish you would, father," said Florence. "I may bring him home with me
from school some day,--may I not?"

"No!" returned Major Howard. "I can notice him in the street."

"But you cannot judge of him so far off," pursued Florence. "He looks
better the nearer you approach him."

"I shall judge him best at a distance," remarked her father, moving
away.

Florence did not exactly like the tone of voice in which he uttered
these last words; but she soon forgot all else in the contemplation of
studying Latin, and having Edgar's assistance in learning her lessons.
She had never in her life taken any note of time,--never felt it lag
heavily on her hands; but it appeared to her now that these interminable
days of vacation would never come to an end. She passed one of them with
Edith and Rufus Malcome, and this was by far the most insupportable of
any. "She loved Edith dearly," she said; "but could not endure the
childish prattle and frivolity of Rufus."

He was six months older than Florence, and Edith had seen seventeen
summers, while Florence was only in her fifteenth; but she was so well
matured in manners and appearance as to seem the senior of the delicate,
retiring Edith.

Col. Malcome paid her many courteous attentions during her visit, and
expressed an ardent hope that a friendship and intimacy might spring up
between her and his daughter.

Florence said she should be delighted to form a companionship with
Edith.

"We are located so near the seminary," said Col. Malcome, as she was
preparing to return home, and Rufus stood waiting to accompany her;
"while your father's mansion is so distant, that it will be very
convenient for you, on rough days, to come and pass the night with
Edith. Indeed, I should be highly gratified if you would make my house a
sort of second home, and come in, familiarly, every day, if you choose."

Florence thanked him for his kindness, kissed Edith, and descended to
the street in company with Rufus.

Col. Malcome approached the window and regarded the couple earnestly
till they passed beyond his view, while strange, dark, commingled
expressions passed over his face. Edith crept up to him and said softly,
"What troubles you, father?"

He looked down sternly on her sweet, upturned face, and said in a tone
of strong command:

"Edith, I desire you to cultivate the acquaintance of Florence Howard by
every means in your power."

"I shall be glad to do so, father," answered she, with a look and tone
which deprecated his sternness.

"'Tis well, then," said he, relaxing his brow and imprinting a kiss on
her soft cheek as he turned away and stepped forth upon the piazza. The
full moon was just rising in the east; the river rippled sweetly in the
distance, and the whippoorwills piped their sharp, shrill notes on the
hushed evening air. Suddenly he heard the garden-gate unclose, and,
turning, beheld Mrs. Edson and her husband approaching. Descending the
marble steps, he met them in the avenue, and, after a cordial
interchange of salutations, ushered them into the gas-lighted
drawing-room, where Edith, in a gossamer-like muslin, reclined on a
velvet ottoman.

The evening passed pleasantly to all but Mr. Edson, who sat like a
pantomime in a play, staring and grinning at what he could not
understand or digest. Col. Malcome seemed, however, to take a malicious
pleasure in placing his guest in the most awkward positions, and showing
off his own superior grace and polish to the best advantage. If
anything, he rather overdone. But perhaps he thought with Mrs. Salsify
Mumbles in this case, "Better overshoot than fall short." Louise was
graceful and self-possessed as usual; and it must be confessed did not
appear very much disconcerted when Col. M. showed her husband in some
ridiculous light, or mercilessly uncurtained his crude, narrow-minded
opinions and ideas.

Scorn and contempt for the man she had married were fast mastering all
kinder feelings she once had toward him.

CHAPTER XVI.

"I bid you leave the girl, and think no more
About her from henceforth."

"Ah, I can leave
Her, sire;--but to forget will be, I fear,
A thing beyond my power."

It was midsummer, and the Hermit of the Cedars sat under his low piazza,
curiously constructed of the enwreathed boughs and branches of evergreen
trees. He held a volume in his attenuated hand, with the contents of
which, he seemed intently occupied. His appearance was melancholy in the
extreme. A pale, thin face;--deep sunken eyes, and a broad, high brow,
by sorrow seamed with furrows long and wide; for she doth ever dig with
deeper, harsher hand than time. A loose linen garment was wrapped around
his tall, gaunt form, and a white handkerchief tied over his head to
prevent the passing breezes from blowing his thin, straggling gray hair
about his features.

So intent was he on the contents of his book that he did not notice the
approach of the cheerer of his solitude. Edgar came along the narrow
path with a step quicker and more impatient than was his wont, and there
was an expression on his fine, manly face which had something of
mortification and anger, but more of regret and sorrow. He threw his
satchel on the ground, and sat down at the hermit's feet, who laid aside
his volume, on beholding him in that position, and asked him if he was
fatigued or ill.

"No," said the youth, "but I shall be glad when I am gone away from here
to the university."

"Ah!" returned the hermit, "it is as I knew it would be when I placed
you at the seminary. Your desire for fame and honor has returned, and
you long to go forth in the great world and mingle in its
st[illegible]."

"No," said Edgar, "I would rather live and die within the walls of this
hermitage, than ever go beyond them again; but I'm resolved I will not
do the foolish thing. I'll go forth, and if my life is spared, show
those who call me a foundling, and a wild cub of the woods, that I am
something more than they suppose me to be."

"Who has dared apply such epithets to you, my boy?" exclaimed the
hermit, his pale cheeks glowing with anger.

"Do you know Major Howard of 'Summer Home?'" asked Edgar.

"That do I," answered the hermit; "and did he call you by these names?"

"Yes," returned Edgar.

"_He_ talk of foundlings!" said the hermit. "Why did you not slap him in
the face, Edgar?"

"The words did not come directly from him to me," said the youth,
wondering at his uncle's anger, which far exceeded his own.

"Ay, through a third person you obtained them? and that was"----

"His daughter, Florence Howard."

"Florence Howard!" repeated his uncle, "and what do you know of her?"

"I have been to school with her four or five months, and have assisted
her in her Latin studies this summer," returned Edgar.

"And shall never behold her face again!" said the hermit, in a tone of
angry vehemence, bringing his heavy sandalled foot down upon the wooden
sill with a violence that made Edgar start from his lounging posture on
the turf, and gaze with amazement upon the fierce workings of a face he
had never seen flushed by an angry emotion before. He feared his uncle
had suddenly gone mad, and stood indeterminate what course to pursue,
when the countenance before him changed, the eyes closed, and the hermit
fell heavily on the green sward in front of his door. Edgar, in his
alarm, lifted the prostrate form in his strong, young arms, and bore him
to the low, rough couch, which was their nightly resting-place. Then,
taking a bottle from a [illegible] shelf above the huge, black
fire-place, he poured its contents in a cup, and bathed the temples of
the deathly-looking face till the eyes opened with recognition, and the
lips moved, though inaudibly.

He watched by the bed-side several hours, and at length the hermit rose
suddenly to his feet, and bade Edgar retire. He obeyed, and closed his
eyes, but not to sleep. Opening them after a while, he beheld his uncle
sitting before the table engaged in writing. Again the lids closed, and
he fell into a light drowse, during which Florence Howard flitted before
him in countless variety of forms. When again he looked around he was
alone. The long summer twilight had deepened into evening, and Edgar
rose and lighted a lamp. On the table he discovered a small, folded
billet, addressed to him. He sank on his knees, opened it, and read.
Various were the expressions that flitted over his features as he did
so. When he had finished he refolded it carefully, and, drawing a bunch
of keys from his pocket, unlocked a small box which sat on the table,
placed the letter within, then relocked it and returned the keys to his
pocket.

Then he extinguished the lamp and sat down in the window-nook to his
watch of the stars.

But his thoughts were different from what they once were when he gazed
on their glistening faces.

His soul-pinions had kissed the earth, and become fouled by contact with
a grosser element; and heavy with a weltering weight of woe, that they
could not soar aloft and hover over the casements of angelic homes, to
rest at last on the glory-bright hills of heaven.

CHAPTER XVII.

"I only know their dream was vain,
And that they woke to find it past,
And when by chance they met again,
It was not as they parted last.
His was not faith that lightly dies;
For truth and love as clearly shone
In the blue heaven of his soft eyes
As the dark midnight of her own.
And therefore heaven alone can tell
What are his living visions now,
But hers--the eye can read too well
The language written on her brow."

PHEBE CAREY.

The yearly examination and exhibition of Cedar Hill Seminary was
approaching, and teachers and pupils were busied with preparations in
order to pass the ordeal creditably to themselves and to the
institution.

Prominent among the list of performers stood the name of Edgar
Lindenwood, often in juxtaposition with that of Florence Howard. Since
the scene in the hermit's hut, Edgar, as commanded by his uncle, had
studiously avoided Florence, and she, for a still longer period, had
evinced a certain distance and reserve toward him. Edgar's knowledge of
her father's dislike might be sufficient cause to part him from her, but
it could by no means justify his growing intercourse with Edith Malcome.

As the time approached for the exhibition, Florence asked her father's
permission to absent herself entirely and remain at home. Maj. Howard
thought she had better attend, as she had been to school several terms;
but she said she felt too languid to take part in the exercises, and
thus obtained the excuse of her indulgent father.

Edgar's quick, impassioned nature regarded her absence as a direct
insult to himself, for in all the parts assigned her, she would be
brought on the stage in company with him, and frequently obliged to hold
single converse. If this opinion needed further confirmation it was
added, when she appeared at the Scholars' Levee, held on the evening of
the exhibition, in elegant dress and dashing spirits, with Rufus Malcome
for a partner.

They passed each other in the dance without a token of recognition.
Edgar attached himself to Edith for the larger part of the evening.
After the first two or three cotillons he did not care to join them; and
Edith, being too delicate to bear the excitement, they roamed through
the hall, conversing together of the events of the exhibition, or
mingling among groups of the village people who had assembled by
invitation to partake in the festive scene.

"Ha, my little fairy!" whispered Mrs. Edson in the ear of Edith, as she
was sauntering past on the arm of Lindenwood, unmindful of her friend's
proximity; "are you so far skyward you can't see poor Louise? Introduce
me to your princely gallant, an' it please you."

Edith turned and presented Edgar to Mrs. Edson, who instantly found them
a place in the group around her.

"This scene brings vividly before me my happy school days," she
remarked, tears welling up to her beautiful eyes, which she dashed
hurriedly away, exclaiming, "but I must not begin to prose about myself
when I was young, lest I drive you all away by my tedious recitals."

"Mr. Lindenwood," said she, turning to Edgar, "though we have never met
before, your vivid personations on the stage to-day have caused you to
seem more like an old friend than a comparative stranger."

Edgar expressed his pleasure that his poor performances had met her
approbation, and also that she condescended to recognize him as a
friend.

"What a graceful creature is Florence Howard!" continued Mrs. Edson, as
the fair girl whirled past her in the dance. "Edith, your brother should
consider himself most fortunate in securing the most brilliant lady in
the room for a partner; no disparagement to your charms, my dear," she
added, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on the soft cheek of the
blushing girl. "You know what I think of you, darling. The spirit of
beauty is everywhere, says the poet. She assumes the largest variety of
types and forms, and, verily, she has given her most dangerous one to
Florence Howard. She is the brilliant dahlia, the pride of the gay
parterre; but my Edith is the modest daisy blooming in some sheltered
nook. The stormy winds shall rend the one from its lofty stalk and
scatter its wealth of purple leaves o'er the miry earth, while dews and
sunbeams kiss the modest plant that blooms in the lowly vale. Is it not
so, Mr. Lindenwood?" she asked, as, pausing, she encountered his gaze
fixed earnestly on her face.

"I don't know," he said; "that is, I have not considered the subject.
Edith, I think the party are retiring," he added, turning his eyes to
several disjointed groups; "remain with Mrs. Edson a few moments and I
will return to you."

As he entered the ladies' dressing room, he saw Florence standing alone
by the window, in the very spot where they had often stood in the
interim of recitations, and studied their lessons from the same book. He
thought he would give the world to know she was thinking of those times
now. Approaching softly he stood near her in silence a few moments.

"O, Florence!" said he, at length, in a low, deep tone, tremulous with
intense feeling and tenderness. Was there not enough of passionate
devotion breathed in that one word to convince her of his eternal,
unchanging affection?

What poor, weak simpletons are we, to pine and languish for words, where
looks and tones are infinitely more expressive! Some people affirm that
"actions speak louder than words." But we can't say much in favor of
those, because, as far as we know, people in love invariably act like
fools.

Florence turned at Edgar's adjuration, and he saw, by the moonlight, two
great tear-drops dimming her starry eyes. He was about to extend his
hand when Rufus Malcome rushed into the room, calling her name. Changing
his purpose, he said, in a light conventional tone, "Have you been happy
to night?"

"O, very!" answered she, with a gay laugh, which echoed in his ear long
after she had taken the arm of Rufus and tripped lightly away.

When Edgar returned to Edith, he found Col. Malcome in lively
conversation with Mrs. Edson. Florence and Rufus had disappeared, and
Edith signifying her wish to retire, he led her from the hall and
escorted her home. He found Florence in Col. Malcome's parlor sitting on
a sofa with Rufus at her side.

"Come in, Lindenwood," said he; "here's room for us all."

"Thank you," returned Edgar. "I have a long walk before me, and must not
tarry."

"O, stay with us to night," said Rufus.

"We should be pleased to have you remain, if agreeable," remarked Edith,
timidly.

"It would be very agreeable," said Edgar, politely, "but my absence
would alarm my uncle."

"O, he wants to be off to his hermitage!" laughed Rufus, coarsely; "let
him go. You will stay, won't you, Florence?"

"If Edith invites me," returned she.

"Well, I do," said Edith quickly.

"Then the point is settled," remarked Florence.

"Good-night to you all," said Edgar, moving hastily toward the door.

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