Chapter XLIX

"They loved;--and were beloved. O happiness.
I have said all that can be said of bliss
In saying that they loved. The young heart has
Such store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,
And it is love that works the mind, and brings
Its treasure to the light. I did love once,
Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though now
My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear
The falsest of false things--a mask of smiles;
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory
Of that which has been."

Summer showered her wealth of roses over the gardens and grassy paths of Wimbledon. Day after day the sound of the busy hammer rang out on the scented air, and crowds of workmen were seen at eventide hurrying to their separate places of abode. Great teams, loaded with fancy and ornamental wood and iron work, labored through the streets, and "Summer Home" was rising from its ruins in all its former magnificence and splendor.

Major Howard decided he could not use the confiscated wealth of the pretended Col. Malcome for a better purpose than to rebuild the mansion his wickedness had destroyed.

Florence was delighted at the prospect of regaining the beautiful home she had lost; for, elegant and luxurious as was her present abode, she was disquieted by too frequent remembrance of the terrible scenes she had witnessed beneath its roof. Still, the Howards were for the most part very happy. Edith's bright head was again covered with its golden wealth of curls, and her merry laughter echoed joyously through the halls and parlors of the proud mansion. It seemed her greatest delight to bring a smile to the wan cheek of her mother, who was failing slowly, even beneath the genial influence of a summer sun.

As Florence stood on the vine-curtained terrace one balmy August morning, inhaling the sweet air, and listening to the thrilling warblings of Edith's pet canaries, as they swung in their wire-wrought cages from the roof above, she beheld Willie Danforth coming up the garden path, holding a letter toward her in his cunning, tempting way. She extended her hand to receive it.

"No," said he, suddenly drawing it back. "I don't think I'll let you have this tiny little missive, unless you will first promise to tell me who is the writer."

"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager, impatient aspect.

His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked favorites of hers.

At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and hurried through the contents.

"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile; "for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we stand on now?"

The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,

"That do I, and her brother Neddie."

"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"

"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their acquaintance, Florence?"

"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a solitary hermit. So she would believe you were dead."

"And did that belief appear to cause her any regret?" asked William, who had been listening with an earnest expression to Florence's words.

"Yes, indeed," returned she; "the pretty, gentle girl has a strong regard for you, Willie. You must renew acquaintance when she and her brother come to pay me their long-meditated visit."

"I don't know," said the young man, rather sadly.

"I believe you will be a second Hermit of the Cedars, or the Hemlocks, or the Pines," said she, laughing; "for you are already half as melancholy as your uncle, at times."

"Do you consider him so very gloomy, then?" asked Willie.

"He has the most mournful expression I ever saw," answered Florence; "but he is an entertaining companion for all that. I always sit apart, and listen in silence, when he relates some tale or adventure of his extensive travels. He was with us yesterday evening, and I never saw him so animated and lively before. Even Aunt Mary's pale, grief-worn countenance assumed a cheerful expression while listening to his sprightly, intelligent conversation."

"Did you not know the cause of his unusual exhilaration?" inquired William.

"No," said Florence, looking innocently in the face of the questioner.

"Edgar is at home."

"Why did he not inform us of his nephew's return?" asked Florence, growing suddenly very pale, and finding it convenient to lean against a pillar near by.

"Perhaps he did not think the intelligence would interest your family," returned Willie; "he is very modest in his confidences."

The seminary bell now commenced to ring, and the youth hastened away with a pleasant good-morning.

Florence stood there a long time, behind the thickly-interwoven woodbines and honeysuckles, supporting herself against the marble column, forgetful of all save the blissful thought that the man she loved was once more near her. He was, indeed, nearer than she supposed, for there came a light footstep on the vine-shrouded terrace, and she felt an arm stealing softly around her, while a voice, whose briefest tone she could never mistake, whispered in her ear:

"Again we have met, and O, Florence! say, in mercy say, it shall be to part no more!"

There is nothing so natural, to a woman that loves, as the presence of the beloved object; and Florence turned toward Edgar with no amazement or surprise; but love unspeakable lighted her features as she placed her hand in his, tenderly, trustfully, and with a manner that convinced him she would never withdraw it again.

Then she led him into the drawing-room, where the family soon assembled, and were presented to the young artist.

Aunt Mary was delighted with his appearance, and soon engaged him in a conversation which grew very brilliant and animated on his part, and was joined in by Florence and Edith, till Major Howard entered, whose joy at again beholding his former travelling companion knew no bounds, and the mirth and merriment increased four-fold. Evening had fallen ere they were aware, when Edgar rose and said he must return to the hermit's habitation.

All regretted to lose his presence, and Major Howard strongly invited him to regard his mansion as a home while he should remain in the vicinity.

Edgar thanked him for his generous offer, and gracefully bowed a good-evening.

Florence accompanied him to the hall door, and he drew her forth on the terrace, which was now glinted over by the silvery moonbeams.

"Come soon again," said she.

"Yes, dearest," he answered. A long, sweet kiss and gentle adieu, in which there was love enough to feast even her long-famishing soul, and he was gone.

She skipped lightly into the parlor, kissed her father, Aunt Mary, Edith, Sylva, and Fido, the little Spanish poodle that was nestled in her arms, and then bounded up the stairs to her own apartment, singing as she went.

"There goes the happiest heart in Wimbledon, to-night," said her father, as he caught the sound of her musical voice ringing through the spacious hall above.

"Save one," said Aunt Mary, with a sad smile.

"He is beyond its precincts," returned Major Howard. "Edith, did you ever love?" said he, quickly turning his discourse toward the gentle girl, who stood, regarding attentively the faces of the speakers, as if she hardly comprehended their words.

"No," answered she, innocently.

"Heaven grant you never may," said her mother, fervently; "come, my child, let us seek the quiet of our own apartment."

Edith threw her arm affectionately round the wasted form.

"Good-night, uncle," said she, and they all disappeared.