Chapter XXXIX

"To the old forest home
I hie me again;
But I bring not the gladness
My spirit knew when
I roamed in my childhood
Its wide-spreading bounds;
For sorrows have pierced me,
My soul wears the wounds."

The Hermit of the Cedars sat in his antique room alone, by a peat-wood fire. He appeared wrapt in moody thought and contemplation, though ever and anon, as the wintry blast gave a wilder sweep over the swaying roof above him, he turned and glanced uneasily toward the door, as though he wished and waited the appearance of some form over its threshold. But the hours passed on, and no one came to cheer his loneliness. So, heaping the ashes over the glowing embers, he betook himself to his lowly couch, but his head had hardly touched the pillow when a quick step crackling along the icy path struck his ear. Ere he could reach the door it was pushed open, and a voice called out hastily, "Uncle Ralph!"

"Edgar, my boy!" exclaimed the hermit, groping in the darkness to clasp him in his arms. "Are you returned at last?"

"Yes, dear uncle," answered the young man; "I reached the village by the evening stage, and hurried with all speed to my old forest home."

The hermit lighted a candle and raked open the coals. A bright fire soon burned on the hearth, and by its ruddy blaze the fond uncle marked the changes two years had wrought in the appearance of his nephew. He was taller, and a manly confidence of tone and manner had succeeded the reserve and timidity which characterized his boyhood. The luxuriant masses of soft brown hair were brushed away from the clear, pale brow, and the deep blue eyes glowed in the conscious light of genius and intellectual fervor. The hermit gazed with ardent admiration on the commanding elegance and beauty of the form before him.

"Education and travel have made a wonderful improvement in your appearance, my boy," he remarked at length, his voice trembling with emotion as he spoke. "Still I don't know but I liked you better as the curly-headed boy in morocco cap and little blue frock-coat, that used to come bounding over the forest path, with his satchel in hand; or set here of long winter evenings, reading some treasured volume at my side; or perched within the window nook gazing silently upward at the glistening stars;--for the dreamy boy I could keep near me, but the lofty, ambitious man I cannot hope to prison here in a solitary wilderness,--nor should I indulge in a wish so selfish," he added. "Tell me, Edgar, of your travels, your enjoyments and occupations, since you departed from this lowly roof."

The young man gave a brief rehearsal of the principal events of the past two years. He hesitated somewhat when he came to his meeting and renewal of acquaintance with Florence Howard, recollecting his uncle's former aversion to their intercourse. He might have passed over it in silence, but his delicate sense of honor would not allow him to deceive in the smallest point the heart that loved him so devotedly. The listening man bent earnest, scrutinizing glances on the speaker's face as he proceeded with his tale, and when it was finished, bowed his gray head on his thin hands, as was his wont when engaged in deep thought, and remained silent.

At length a tremendous blast swept through the forest, blew open the door, and scattered the coals from the deep fire-place over the floor of the apartment. The moody man started from his reverie. Edgar secured the door, and, taking a broom composed of small sprigs of hemlock and cedar, brushed the scattered embers into a pile.

"Do you not wish to retire?" asked the hermit, as the young man resumed his seat in the corner.

"As you wish, uncle," returned he; "I do not feel much fatigued."

"Ay, but I think you are so," said the kind-hearted man, regarding attentively his nephew's features. "My joy at beholding you has rendered me forgetful of your physical comforts. Let me get you some refreshment, and then you shall lie down and rest your weary limbs."

The hermit took a small brown earthen jug from a rude shelf over the fire-place, and, pouring a portion of its contents into a bright-faced pewter basin, placed it on a heap of glowing coals. Then going to a cupboard he brought forth a large wooden bowl, filled with a coarse, white substance. When the contents of the basin were warm he placed it on the table, and setting a chair, said, "Come, my boy, and partake of this simple food. 'Tis all I have to offer you; not like the dainty repasts at which you are accustomed to sit in the abodes of wealth and fashion."

Edgar approached and took the proffered seat.

"Ay," said he; "you have served me a dish more grateful to my palate than the most delicately-prepared dainties would prove. This rich, sweet milk is delicious, and who boils your hominy so nicely, uncle?" he continued, conveying several slices of the substance in the wooden bowl to his basin.

"Dilly Danforth, the poor village washerwoman, cooks it, and her boy, Willie, brings it to me," answered the hermit.

"Ay, the lad you mentioned in one of your letters," said Edgar. "Why does he not remain with you altogether? You seemed happy in his companionship, and I hoped he might become to you a second Edgar."

A strange expression passed over the face of the recluse as his nephew, with much earnest truthfulness of manner, gave utterance to these words.

"I did like to have the boy with me," he remarked; "but his mother was lonely without him."

Edgar rose from his simple repast.

"Now you had better retire," said his uncle, tenderly; "though I fear you will rest but ill on my hard couch."

"My slumbers will be sweet as though I reposed on eider down," returned he, "if you will but assure me that my coming or words have not marred your quiet and composure."

"My boy," said the hermit, gazing on him anxiously, "what do you mean? How should the arrival of one I have so longed to behold give aught but joy to my lonely soul?"

"I may have spoken words that grieved you," said the young man, sorrowfully; "but I could not bear to conceal the truth from you, dear uncle;" and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Edgar," returned the hermit, with emotion, "I am grateful for your confidence, and though I could have wished your heart's affections bestowed on some other woman, I will no longer oppose your inclinations. Marry Florence Howard if you choose."

"Marry her!" exclaimed Edgar, suddenly breaking in upon his uncle's discourse. "She is engaged to another."

"What is his name?" asked the hermit.

"Rufus Malcome," returned the young man.

"What! a brother to the girl I saw with you on the river bank?" inquired the recluse, with a sudden excitement of manner.

"Yes," said Edgar; "the brother of Edith Malcome."

"O, the mysterious workings of fate!" exclaimed the hermit, falling again into a ruminating silence, which Edgar did not deem it wise to disturb.

So they laid down on the lowly couch, and the young man, fatigued with his journeyings, drew the coverings over his head to exclude the shrill shriekings of the sweeping blasts, and soon rested quietly in the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

Sleep! angel ministrant to the grief-stricken soul. How many that walk this verdant earth would fain lie locked in her slumberous arms forever!