Heart-Histories and Life-Pictures | Page 4

hear some allusion made to Edith
Walter, in a tone that attracted her attention. She immediately asked
some questions in regard to her, when one of the persons conversing
said--
"Why, don't you know about Edith?"
"I know that there is a great change in her. But the reason of it I have
not heard."
"Indeed! I thought it was pretty well known that her affections had been
trifled with."
"Who could trifle with the affections of so sweet, so good a girl," said
Miss Linmore, indignantly. "The man who could turn from her, has no
true appreciation of what is really excellent and exalted in woman's
character. I have seen her only a few times; but, often enough to make
me estimate her as one among the loveliest of our sex."
"Edwin Florence is the man," was replied. "He won her heart, and then
turned from her; leaving the waters of affection that had flowed at his
touch to lose themselves in the sands at his feet. There must be
something base in the heart of a man who could trifle thus with such a
woman."

It required a strong effort on the part of Miss Linmore to conceal the
instant turbulence of feeling that succeeded so unexpected a declaration.
But she had, naturally, great self-control, and this came to her aid.
"Edwin Florence!" said she, after a brief silence, speaking in a tone of
surprise.
"Yes, he is the man. Ah, me! What a ruin has been wrought! I never
saw such a change in any one as Edith exhibits. The very inspiration of
her life is gone. The love she bore towards Florence seems to have been
almost the mainspring of her existence; for in touching that the whole
circle of motion has grown feeble, and will, I fear, soon cease for ever."
"Dreadful! The falsehood of her lover has broken her heart."
"I fear that it is even so."
"Is she ill? I have not seen her for a long time," said Miss Linmore.
"Not ill, as one sick of a bodily disease; but drooping about as one
whose spirits are broken, and who finds no sustaining arm to lean upon.
When you meet her, she strives to be cheerful, and appear into rested.
But the effort deceives no one."
"Why did Mr. Florence act towards her as he has done?" asked Miss
Linmore.
"A handsomer face and more brilliant exterior were the attractions, I
am told."
The young lady asked no more questions. Those who observed her
closely, saw the warm tints that made beautiful her cheeks grow fainter
and fainter, until they had almost entirely faded. Soon after, she retired
from the company.
In the ardor of his pursuit of a new object of affection, Edwin Florence
scarcely thought of the old one. The image of Edith was hidden by the
interposing form of Miss Linmore. The suspense occasioned by a wish

for time to consider the offer he had made, grew more and more painful
the longer it was continued. On the possession of the lovely girl as his
wife, depended, so he felt, his future happiness. Were she to decline his
offer he would be wretched. In this state of mind, he called one day
upon Miss Linmore, hoping and fearing, yet resolved to know his fate.
The moment he entered her presence he observed a change. She did not
smile; and there was something chilling in the steady glance of her
large dark eyes.
"Have I offended you?" he asked, as she declined taking his offered
hand.
"Yes," was the firm reply, while the young lady assumed a dignified
air.
"In what?" asked Florence.
"In proving false to her in whose ears you first breathed words of
affection."
The young man started as if stung by a serpent.
"The man," resumed Miss Linmore, "who has been false to Edith
Walter, never can be true to me. I wouldn't have the affection that could
turn from one like her. I hold it to be light as the thistle-down. Go! heal
the heart you have almost broken, if, perchance, it be not yet too late.
As for me, think of me as if we had all our lives been strangers--such,
henceforth, we must ever remain."
And saying this, Catharine Linmore turned from the rebuked and
astonished young man, and left the room. He immediately retired.
CHAPTER II.

EVENING, with its passionless influences, was stealing softly down,
and leaving on all things its hues of quiet and repose. The heart of
nature was beating with calm and even pulses. Not so the heart of

Edwin Florence. It had a wilder throb; and the face of nature was not
reflected in the mirror of his feelings, He was alone in his room, where
he had been during