Chapter XXIII

"From the hour by him enchanted,
From the moment when we met;
Henceforth by one image haunted,
Life may never more forget.
All my nature changed--his being
Seemed the only source of mine.
Fond heart, hadst thou no foreseeing
Thy sad future to divine?"

Florence Howard sat in a deep-cushioned fauteuil, beside a marble table which graced the centre of the elegant apartment she called her own. A loose robe, of India cashmere, in superb colors, with a lining of the softest, rose-colored velvet, was folded carelessly about her graceful form. One white hand toyed with the luxuriant chestnut curls, that hung in beautiful profusion over her shoulders; the other rested lightly on the cushioned arm of the chair. A quantity of rich writing materials were spread out on the table before her; but she glanced towards them listlessly, and at length bowed her queenly head between her hands, and sat a long time still and silent, as if absorbed in reverie. Ever and anon her little foot tapped impatiently the soft carpet beneath it, as though some harassing, unpleasant vision disturbed her brain. The clear, ringing chimes of the college clock finally aroused her to consciousness.

Rising, she drew aside the heavy folds of the damask curtain, and gazed for a moment forth on the sleeping earth. The stars were bright, and a slender crescent rim hung just above the dark cedar forest that swept and swayed to the northward. Florence dropped the curtain, and, returning to the table, opened a large morocco-bound volume, which revealed a virgin page. Twirling the silver top from a carved, mosaic inkstand, she dipped the golden tips of a pearl-handled pen in its ebon contents, and holding it between her small, taper fingers, rested her arm a few moments on the stand, as if waiting for her thoughts to form and arrange themselves ere she gave them expression. Suddenly the pen dashed off, and line after line of graceful characters grew on the pure, white page till it was completely filled.

"I have looked out on the midnight," she wrote, "with all its countless diamonds blazing on its brow; and far on the verge of the northern horizon hung the pale disc of the young crescent moon hurrying to obscure itself behind the dark, gloomy forest,--like as my hopes fail when I turn my eyes toward those cedar-tops. O, earth, how soon thy children learn the lesson of sorrow and distrust! But where is my old pen taking me this evening? This journal grows a sad, ghostly thing, o'ersplashed with tears, and wo-fraught to the edges.

"To turn the subject: What have I done to-day? Moped dismally till evening, and then muffled myself in furs; sat down among cushions and buffalo robes in the omnibus-sleigh, beside ----, shall I write it? yes! beside Rufus Malcome, and dashed away over the snow-clad earth to the music of merry bells and merrier voices around me.

"How finely Jenny Andrews and Richard Giblet enjoyed themselves! I understood their happiness well. Mrs. Edson was not quite so buoyant with spirits as usual; but she conversed with Rufus in her charming style. I was quite indignant to hear so much eloquence and refinement wasted on a churl like him, and just malicious enough to think the fair speaker would have preferred to say her pretty things in the ear of one who could have better appreciated their worth and beauty, namely, Col. Malcome. He is really a splendid man, though I hardly relish the power he seems to exercise over father, who is so infatuated with him I believe he would scarcely be able to refuse any request he might choose to make. I wonder so talented a father should own a dolt like Rufus for a son. Silly-pated fellow! he has made love to me several times. I say _made_ it, and truthfully; for no such simpleton as he could ever actually _feel_ it in their bosoms. But then, no doubt, he thinks he is in love,--desperately so. I have no pity for him; nothing but contempt, and yet, should he propose for me to my father, I fear the result would be his acceptance. He has wealth and position, and I know father has a suspicion that I have yet a lingering recollection of the hermit's boy, as he calls Edgar. O, name of all others! Have I dared write it in full on these pages? I must draw an obscuring line over it. There! Now,

'One last, long sigh to hope and love,
Then back to busy life again.'"

While Florence was occupied with her journal in the room above, Col. Malcome sat with her father in the parlor below, and that which she had feared might some time come to pass had actually occurred; and when she nestled down on her soft pillow and sank to sleep, if her slumbers were not tranquil and dreamless, they were sweeter than any she might know for many a weary night to come; for she slept in blissful ignorance that she was the affianced bride of Rufus Malcome. Early on the following morning her father imparted to her the dismal intelligence.

"I have accepted him," said Major Howard, "on the conditions that the engagement shall remain a secret between the families, and the union not be consummated for at least one year, as you are both young. Col. Malcome will give his son fifty thousand dollars on his marriage, and also a splendid situation wherever he chooses to reside."

He ceased, and Florence remained silent and abstracted.

"This will be a match suitable for my daughter," said the fond father, approaching and laying his hand affectionately on her bowed head. "Does she not agree with me?"

Florence lifted her face; the light seemed suddenly to have gone out of her eyes and left them in utter darkness. No tinge of color glowed on her features, which worked with painful and scarcely suppressed emotion. The father started back on beholding her. "My child!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

"Leave me alone, father, I entreat of you!" she said.

"Not till you tell me what is distressing you so," said he, chafing her cold hands in his. "Is this engagement so repulsive, so averse to your feelings, as to cause this appearance of agony and distress?"

But she only said, "Leave me, dear father, I entreat you, for a while! I have a sudden illness. By and by I will speak to you."

Awed by her tone and manner, the fond father obeyed. An hour passed by, during which the grief-stricken girl never moved, when the door opened, and Hannah Doliver entered. She glowered on Florence with an expression of hate and gratified revenge, which changed to one of fawning fondness when the pale, tear-stained face was turned toward her. "Pray, don't sit here in the cold all day!" said she. "Your mother desires you to come to her."

Florence wrapped her rich dressing-gown around her, stole down the stairs and entered the apartment of the invalid, who reached her wasted arm from the bed as she approached, and clasped it round the slender, graceful waist. The young girl bowed her head on the pillow, and burst into tears.