Chapter XLIII

"Ah, why
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone,
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow,
As not betraying their full import, yet
Disclose too much!
Disclose too much!--of what?
What is there to disclose?
A heart so ill at ease."

The preparations for the nuptials of Florence Howard with Rufus Malcome were rapidly progressing.

The services of Dilly Danforth were put in active requisition. Day after day her tall, thin form was seen moving to and fro the great mansion, washing windows, polishing grates, and brightening the silver knobs and plates of the mahogany doors. Col. Malcome, in his delight at the approaching marriage of his son, resolved to give a large fête on the occasion, and no pains were spared to render it the most costly and sumptuous affair ever presented to the gaze of the people of Wimbledon. The greatest expense was lavished upon the wedding-banquet, and the young bride's trousseau might have vied in magnificence and profusion with that of a royal princess.

All this display and grandeur was revolting to Florence. It humbled and mortified her proud, independent nature to owe the expensive decoration of her approaching bridal to the generosity of the man she was about to marry.

Col. Malcome appeared in the most fitful spirits as the preparations advanced toward their completion. He paced the piazzas for hours together, with hurried, excited steps, pausing often and muttering indistinctly to himself.

Sometimes he stood before a window in a dejected attitude, and gazed mournfully over the intervening gardens and cottages toward the elegant and stately mansion lately occupied by the Edsons, which stood on a small elevation just across the river, in the midst of beautiful grounds. Then, as he turned suddenly away, his countenance would change from its expression of gloomy regret to one of fierceness and angry revenge.

At length the night, whose morrow was to witness the long-expected ceremony, drew on. Great torrents of rain were flooding the streets and dashing dismally against the casements of the mansion which was, ere long, to blaze in the light of the festive scene.

Still, Col. Malcome, unheeding the storm, walked the wet marbles of the piazzas, with arms folded over his chest and head bowed, in a state of absent, moody absorption. At length the hall-door opened, and Rufus advanced to his father's side.

"What do you want with me?" said the colonel, turning quickly toward him.

"Not much," returned the son. "I heard you walking here, and thought I would join you, as there was no one in the house to keep me company."

"Where is Major Howard?"

"With his wife," answered Rufus.

"And Hannah?" continued the colonel.

"Don't mention that detestable creature!" said the young man angrily. "I can't abide her. So she is out of my sight, I care not where she is."

"Why do you hate the woman so?" asked Col. M. "She seems very fond of you."

"Yes! I cannot move but what she follows me. It is strange Major Howard retains such a bold, impudent slut in his service."

The colonel coughed slightly and remained silent.

At length Rufus spoke again hesitatingly, "Father!" said he.

"Well!" returned Col. M., in a tone which indicated for him to proceed.

"I don't want to marry Florence Howard," said the young man, with a great gulp, as though it cost him a mighty effort to pronounce the words.

"Why not?" asked the father, apparently unheeding his son's emotion. "Don't you love the girl?"

"Love her!" repeated Rufus. "I don't know whether I do or not; but I am afraid of her."

"Afraid of a little, puny girl!" exclaimed Col. Malcome, in a towering rage, "I did not think you such a pitiful craven."

The young man seemed angered by his father's words, but made no retort.

"Why are you afraid of her?" inquired the colonel after a while.

"Because she looks so proud and stern upon me, and treats me with such scorn and contempt."

"O, never mind that!" said his father. "When she is once your wife trust me to lower her loftiness, and make her as meek and humble as you could wish. Let us go in now. How wildly this storm is driving! I hope it may clear before the hour for the marriage arrives." Thus speaking, the father and son entered the hall and sought their respective apartments.

While this scene was passing on the piazza, Florence sat in her room with her journal open on the table before her.

"The last evening of my free, unfettered existence has drawn on," she wrote. "How wildly shrieks the wind, driving great torrents of rain against my curtained casements! It is fit a night like this should usher in my day of doom. Father seems delighted with the approaching festival, and mother has lost the dread she formerly evinced, which I now think was occasioned by the fear of losing me from her side. Hannah is almost wild with glee. She follows the steps of Rufus closely as his shadow. He hates her, and in this one point our feelings sympathize, but in no other. It is impossible to describe the loathing and abhorrence with which I regard the man who in a few more hours will be my husband. O, heavens! will no power save me from a fate so dreadful as a lifetime passed with him? Alas, no! Our beautiful home is gone, and we are poor, and had been shelterless but for these walls, which opened their doors to take us in. And can I make so poor a return for this friendly generosity, or so ungratefully scorn and reject the means presented to reïnstate my father in wealth and magnificence, as to refuse to perform the act which will repay the kindness and restore to him the elegant home whose loss he so deeply deplores? O, no! I must not be so selfish and ungrateful. Still, it seems a great sacrifice even to insure a father's ease and happiness. I have an increasing dread and horror of this Col. Malcome, which I cannot overcome, despite all his apparent generosity and sympathy in our misfortune, and lavish display of profusion and splendor with which he surrounds this approaching bridal. It seems to me all this munificence goes to serve some fell purpose of his own. His strange power over my easy-natured father excites dark apprehensions in my bosom. But why torture myself with imagined ills, when the dread realities are sufficient to unnerve my soul! Now, amid this piteous wailing of storm and wind, I write the last words on these dear old leaves as Florence Howard, and betake me to my pillow,--but O, not to sleep! The bride of to-morrow will make a sorry figure in her silks and jewels."