What a change, from the little gray cottage in the woods to the pillared
walls of Grandison Place.
This ancestral looking mansion was situated on the brow of a long,
winding hill, which commanded a view of the loveliest valley in the
world. A bold, sweeping outline of distant hills, here and there
swelling into mountains, and crowned with a deeper, mistier blue,
divided the rich green of the earth from the azure of the heavens. Far
as the eye could reach, it beheld the wildest luxuriance of nature
refined and subdued by the hand of cultivation and taste. Man had
reverenced the grandeur of the Creator, and made the ploughshare turn
aside from the noble shade-tree, and left the streams rejoicing in their
margins of verdure; and far off, far away beneath the shadow of the
misty blue hills,--of a paler, more leaden hue,--the waters of the great
sea seemed ready to roll down on the vale, that lay smiling before it.
Built of native granite, with high massive walls and low turreted roof,
Grandison Place rose above the surrounding buildings in castellated
majesty. It stood in the centre of a spacious lawn, zoned by a girdle of
oaks, beneath whose dense shade the dew sparkled even at noonday. Within
this zone was a hedge of cedar, so smooth, with twigs so thickly
interwoven, that the gossamer thought it a framework, on which to
stretch its transparent web in the morning sun. Near the house the lawn
was margined with beds of the rarest and most beautiful flowers, queen
roses, and all the fragrant populace of the floral world. But the
grandest and most beautiful feature of all was a magnificent elm-tree,
standing right in the centre of the green inclosure, toweling upward,
sweeping downward, spreading on either side its lordly branches, "from
storms a shelter and from heat a shade."
I never saw so noble a tree. I loved it,--I reverenced it. I associated
with it the idea of strength and protection. Had I seen the woodman's
axe touch its bark, I should have felt as if blood would stream from its
venerable trunk. A circular bench with a back formed of boughs woven in
checker-work surrounded it, and at twilight the soft sofas in the
drawing-room were left vacant for this rustic seat.
Edith loved it, and when she sat there with her crutches leaning against
the rough back, whose gray tint subdued the bright lustre of her golden
hair, I would throw myself on the grass at her feet and gaze upon her,
as the embodiment of human loveliness.
One would suppose that I felt awkward and strange in the midst of such
unaccustomed magnificence; but it was not so. It seemed natural and
right for me to be there. I trod the soft, rich, velvety carpeting with
a step as unembarrassed as when I traversed the grassy lawn. I was as
much at home among the splendors of art as the beauties of nature,--both
seemed my birthright.
I felt the deepest, most unbounded gratitude for my benefactress; but
there was nothing abject in it. I knew that giving did not impoverish
her; that the food I ate was not as much to her as the crumbs that fell
from my mother's table; that the room I occupied was but one in a suite
of elegant apartments; yet this did not diminish my sense of obligation.
It lightened it, however, of its oppressive weight.
My room was next to Edith's. The only difference in the furniture was in
the color of the hangings. The curtains and bed drapery of mine were
pink, hers blue. Both opened into an upper piazza, whose lofty pillars
were wreathed with flowering vines, and crowned with Corinthian
capitals. Surely my love for the beautiful ought to have been satisfied;
and so it was,--but it was long, long before my heart opened to receive
its influence. The clods that covered my mother's ashes laid too heavily
upon it.
Mrs. Linwood had a great deal of company from the city, which was but a
short journey from Grandison Place. As they were mostly transient
guests, I saw but little of them. My extreme youth, and deep mourning
dress, were sufficient reasons for withdrawing from the family circle
when strangers enlarged it. Edith was three years older than myself, and
was of course expected to assist her mother in the honors of
hospitality. She loved society, moreover, and entered into its innocent
pleasures with the delight of a young, genial nature. It was difficult
to think of her as a young lady, she was so extremely juvenile in her
appearance; and her lameness, by giving her an air of childish
dependence, added to the illusion caused by her fair, clustering
ringlets and infantine rosiness of complexion. She wanted to bring me
forward;--she coaxed, caressed, and playfully threatened, nor desisted
till her mother said, with grave tenderness--
"The heart cannot be forced, Edith; Gabriella is but a child, and should
be allowed the freedom of a child. The restraints of social life, once
assumed, are not easily thrown aside. Let her do just as she pleases."
And so I did; and it pleased me to wander about the lawn; to sit and
read under the great elm-tree; to make garlands of myrtle and sweet
running vine flowers for Edith's beautiful hair; to walk the piazza,
when moonlight silvered the columns and covered with white glory the
granite walls, while the fountain of poetry down in the depths of my
soul welled and trembled in the heavenly lustre.
It pleased me to sit in the library, or rather to stand and move about
there, for at that time I did not like to sit anywhere but on the grass
or the oaken bench. The old poets were there in rich binding, all the
classics, and the choicest specimens of modern literature. There were
light, airy, movable steps, so as to reach to the topmost shelves, and
there I loved to poise myself, like a bird on the spray, peeping into
this book and that, gathering here and there a golden grain or sweet
scented flower for the garner of thought, or the bower of imagination.
There were statues in niches made to receive them,--the gods and
goddesses of Greece and Rome, in their cold, severe beauty, all
passionless and pure, in spite of the glowing mythology that called them
into existence. There were paintings, too, that became a part of my
being, I took them in with such intense, gazing eyes. Indeed, the house
was lined with them. I could not walk through a room without stopping to
admire some work of genius, some masterpiece of art.
I over-heard Dr. Harlowe say to Mrs. Linwood, that it was a pity I were
not at school, I was so very young. As if I were not at school all the
time! As if those grand old books were not teachers; those breathing
statues, those gorgeous paintings were not teachers; as if the noble
edifice itself, with its magnificent surroundings, the billowy heave of
the distant mountains, the glimpses of the sublime sea, the fair expanse
of the beautiful valley, were not teachers!
Oh! they little knew what lessons I was learning. They little knew how
the soul of the silent orphan girl was growing within her,--how her
imagination, like flowers, was nourished in stillness and secrecy by the
air and the sunshine, the dew and the shower.
I had other teachers, too, in the lonely churchyard; very solemn they
were, and gentle too, and I loved their voiceless instructions better
than the sounding eloquence of words.
Mr. Regulus thought with Dr. Harlowe, that it was a pity I was not at
school. He called to see Mrs. Linwood and asked her to use her influence
to induce me to return as a pupil to the academy. She left it to my
decision, but I shrunk from the thought of contact with the rude village
children. I felt as if I had learned all Mr. Regulus could teach me. I
was under greater masters now. Yet I was grateful for the interest he
manifested in me. I had no vindictive remembrance of the poem he had so
ruthlessly murdered. Innumerable acts of after kindness had obliterated
the impression, or rather covered it with a growth of pleasant memories.
"Have you given up entirely the idea of being a teacher yourself?" he
asked, in a low voice, "or has the kindness of friends rendered it
superfluous? I do not ask from curiosity out a deep interest in your
future welfare."
This was a startling question. I had not thought of the subject since I
had entered my new home. Why should I think of the drudgery of life,
pillowed on the downy couch of luxury and ease? I was forgetting that I
was but the recipient of another's bounty,--a guest, but not a child of
the household.
Low as was his voice, I knew Mrs. Linwood heard and understood him, for
her eyes rested on me with a peculiar expression of anxiety and
interest. She did not speak, and I knew not what to utter. A burning
glow rose to my cheeks, and my heart fluttered with painful
apprehension. It was all a dream, then. That home of affluence was not
mine,--it was only the asylum of my first days of orphanage. The
maternal tenderness of Mrs. Linwood was nothing more than compassion and
Christian charity, and the sisterly affection of the lovely Edith but
the overflowing of the milk of human kindness. These were my first,
flashing thoughts; then the inherent pride of my nature rose to sustain
me. I would never be a willing burden to any one. I would toil day and
night, sooner than eat the bread of dependence. It would have been far
better to have left me in the humble cottage where they found me, to
commence my life of drudgery at once, than to have given me a taste of
luxury and affluence, to heighten, by force of contrast, privation and
labor.
"I will commence teaching immediately," I answered, trying in vain to
speak with firmness, "if you think I am not too young, and a situation
can be obtained;" "that is," I added, I fear a little proudly, "if Mrs.
Linwood approve."
"It must not be thought of _at present_," she answered, speaking to Mr.
Regulus. "Gabriella is too young yet to assume the burden of authority.
Her physical powers are still undeveloped. Besides, we shall pass the
winter in the metropolis. Next summer we will talk about it."
"They speak of adding a primary department to the academy," said my
former master, "which will be under female superintendence. If this _is_
done, and she would accept the situation, I think I have influence
enough to secure it for her."
"We will see to that hereafter," said Mrs. Linwood; "but of one thing I
am assured, if Gabriella ever wishes to assume duties so honorable and
so feminine, she would think it a privilege to be under your especial
guardianship, and within reach of your experience and counsel."
I tried to speak, and utter an assent to this wise and decided remark,
but I could not. I felt the tears gushing into my eyes, and hastily
rising, I left the room. I did not go out on the lawn, for I saw Edith's
white robes under the trees, and I knew the guests of the city were with
her. I ran up stairs to my own apartment, or that which was called mine,
and, sitting down in an embrasure of the window, drew aside the rosy
damask and gazed around me.
Do not judge me too harshly. I was ungrateful; I knew I was. My heart
rose against Mrs. Linwood for her cold decision. I forgot, for the
moment, her holy ministrations to my dying mother, her care and
protection of me, when left desolate and alone. I forgot that I had no
claims on her beyond what her compassion granted. I realized all at once
that I was poor and dependent, though basking in the sunshine of wealth.
In justice to myself I must say, that the bitterest tears I then shed
were caused by disappointment in Mrs. Linwood's exalted character. I had
imagined her "bounty as boundless as the sea, her love as deep." Now the
noble proportion of her virtues seemed dwarfed, their luxuriance
stinted, and withering too.
While I was thus cheating my benefactress of her fair perfections, she
came in with her usual quiet and stilly step, and sat down beside me.
The consciousness of what was passing in my mind, made the guilty blood
rush warm to my face.
"You have been weeping, Gabriella," she said, in gentle accents; "your
feelings are wounded, you think me cold, perhaps unkind."
"Oh, madam, what have I said?"
"Nothing, my dear child, and yet I have read every thing. Your ingenuous
countenance expressed on my entrance as plain as words could utter,
'Hate me, for I am an ingrate.'"
"You do, indeed, read very closely."
"Could you look as closely into my heart, Gabriella, were my face as
transparent as yours, you would understand at once my apparent coldness
as anxiety for your highest good. Did I consult my own pleasure, without
regard to that discipline by which the elements of character are wrought
into beauty and fitness, I should cherish no wish but to see you ever
near me as now, indulging the sweet dreams of youth, only the more
fascinating for being shadowed with melancholy. I would save you, if
possible, from becoming the victim of a diseased imagination, or too
morbid a sensibility."
I looked up, impressed with her calm, earnest tones, and as I listened,
conscience upbraided me with injustice and ingratitude.
"There is a period in every young girl's life, my dear Gabriella, when
she is in danger of becoming a vain and idle dreamer, when the
amusements of childhood have ceased to interest, and the shadow of
woman's destiny involves the pleasures of youth. The mind is occupied
with vague imaginings, the heart with restless cravings for unknown
blessings. With your vivid imagination and deep sensibility, your love
of reverie and abstraction, there is great danger of your yielding
unconsciously to habits the more fatal in their influence, because
apparently as innocent as they are insidious and pernicious. A life of
active industry and usefulness is the only safeguard from temptation and
sin."
Oh, how every true word she uttered ennobled her in my estimation, while
it humbled myself. Idler that I was in my Father's vineyard, I was
holding out my hands for the clustering grapes, whose purple juice is
for him who treadeth the wine-press.
"Were my own Edith physically strong," she added, "I would ask no nobler
vocation for her than the one suggested to you this day. I should
rejoice to see her passing through a discipline so chastening and
exalting. I should rejoice to see her exercising the faculties which God
has given her for the benefit of her kind. The possession of wealth does
not exempt one from the active duties of life, from self-sacrifice,
industry and patient continuance in well-doing. The little I have done
for you, all that I can do, is but a drop from the fountain, and were it
ten times more would never be missed. It is not that I would give less,
but I would require more. While I live, this shall ever be your home,
where you shall feel a mother's care, protection, and tenderness; but I
want you to form habits of self-reliance, independence, and usefulness,
which will remain your friends, though other friends should be taken
from you."
Dear, excellent Mrs. Linwood! how my proud, rebellious heart melted
before her! What resolutions I formed to be always governed by her
influence, and guided by her counsels! How vividly her image rises
before me, as she then looked, in her customary dress of pale, silver
gray, her plain yet graceful lace cap, simply parted hair, and calm,
benevolent countenance.
She was the most unpretending of human beings. She moved about the house
with a step as stilly as the falling dews. Indeed, such was her walk
through life. She seemed born to teach mankind unostentatious charity.
Yet, under this mild, calm exterior, she had a strong, controlling will,
which all around her felt and acknowledged. From the moment she drew the
fan from my hand, at my mother's bedside, to the hour I left her
dwelling, she acted upon me with a force powerful as the sun, and as
benignant too.