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 Then there was a sound as of bars withdrawn, and a bright, blazing hearth was revealed for a moment as the dark form entered, when all was hushed and silent again, save the dismal roar of the night wind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 reïnvigorate 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.

The night wind roared solemnly without, the fire burned low on the rude hearth, and the little apartment, but illy protected from the searching blasts, grew chilly. Still the hermit sat silent, his bowed head resting between his small, attenuated hands. Edgar rose, brought the long overcoat and spread it over his shoulders, as a protection from the increasing cold. Then wrapping a blanket around his own light form, he stole softly to the window, and turned his gaze upward to the star-lighted heaven. He dearly loved to sit thus through the hushed midnight hours, and listen to the deep, heavy roaring of the mighty winds, as they swept through the surrounding forest, while his soul seemed borne away on their rushing currents, up and upward till her pinions brushed the starry palaces of angels and beatified spirits; and on, and on, with new splendors ever bursting on her ravished vision, till the elysium of light in the high heaven of heavens poured its bewildering glories upon her, and her weary wings fluttered to rest at last upon the bosom of the All-Holy.

Edgar was possessed of a temperament of the most imaginative order, deeply imbued with lofty, poetic sentiment, and a tendency to reserve and melancholy. His father had been an artist, and the sunny skies of Italy cast their bright glory over his tender years, warming to impassioned ardor the springs and fountains of his youthful bosom. Very few boys of his age and acquirements could have endured the seclusion in which he had dwelt for the last six months; but nothing could have been more consonant with the reserved, romantic disposition of Edgar; and the prospect of leaving the wild hut in the forest to go forth among the wide world's jostling crowds, caused him heart-throbbing pangs.

After a long silence the hermit roused himself. The room was cold and dark.

"Edgar?" said he, in a low, broken voice.

"I am here," answered the youth, rising, and feeling his way through the darkness to his uncle's side, "Won't you lie down now? The room is so cold, and there is no wood within to replenish the fire."

"Yes, my boy, I will lie down," said the hermit, "but not to sleep; the ghosts of past joys are with me to-night."

"Drive them away, uncle!" said the lad soothingly. "I am not disposed to sleep either. Let us lie down and cover us warm, and then you tell me of your plans and projects for my future, as you had commenced to do a few hours ago."

"No, Edgar, not to-night," answered the recluse. "Your young eyes will wax heavy with these midnight vigils. You must sleep, my boy, and to-morrow I will communicate my plans concerning you."

"As you say, uncle," returned Edgar, preparing to lie down.

Young, and happily ignorant of the cares and sorrows that distract the bosoms of maturer years, he was soon asleep.

The hermit moved to the window, and, after gazing forth some time in silence, murmured, "Wild, wild is the night! Heaven send she does not suffer. I left two bundles on her lonely sill, though my fingers grew stiff with cold ere I had gathered them. Thus do I feebly endeavor to atone for past misconduct. How the wind roars through the pines! O, what memories of long ago rush o'er my soul! I think of Mary as the time approaches when she will be near me. Shall I see her face again? God forbid!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot violently upon the stone floor. After a while he resumed his low soliloquy. "I fear for Edgar," he said, "lest the cold world chill his heart and undo his usefulness, as it has mine. He has my temperament, reserved, sensitive, and with the same accursed capacity for strong, undying attachment. What a fair prospect of fame had I! What honors were ready to crown me when that monster came and blasted them all! Such do I fear will be Edgar's fate. But he must go forth into the world; such was the wish of his parents. I can keep him near me a few months longer by sending him to the Wimbledon seminary, ere he must depart for some distant university or school of art. Then the great world will have opened before him, and I shall see him no more." The hermit suddenly ceased. Tears choked his utterance.

"Uncle!" said Edgar, starting quickly from his slumbers, "will you not come and lie down?"

"Yes, my boy," answered the sorrowing man, approaching the rude couch.

The wintry winds wailed on with piteous, mournful voices; but the _Hermit of the Cedars_ slept at last,

"A troubled, dreamy sleep."