If I do not pass more rapidly over these early scenes, I shall never
finish my book.
Book!--am I writing a book? No, indeed! This is only a record of my
heart's life, written at random and carelessly thrown aside, sheet after
sheet, sibylline leaves from the great book of fate. The wind may blow
them away, a spark consume them. I may myself commit them to the flames.
I am tempted to do so at this moment.
I once thought it a glorious thing to be an author,--to touch the
electric wire of sentiment, and know that thousands would thrill at the
shock,--to speak, and believe that unborn millions would hear the music
of those echoing words,--to possess the wand of the enchanter, the ring
of the genii, the magic key to the temple of temples, the pass-word to
the universe of mind. I once had such visions as these, but they are
passed.
To touch the electric wire, and feel the bolt scathing one's own
brain,--to speak, to hear the dreary echo of one's voice return through
the desert waste,--to enter the temple and find nothing but ruins and
desolation,--to lay a sacrifice on the altar, and see no fire from
heaven descend in token of acceptance,--to stand the priestess of a
lonely shrine, uttering oracles to the unheeding wind,--is not such too
often the doom of those who have looked to fame as their heritage,
believing genius their dower?
Heaven save me from such a destiny. Better the daily task, the measured
duty, the chained-down spirit, the girdled heart.
A year after Mrs. Linwood pointed out to me the path of duty, I began to
walk in it. I have passed the winter in the city, but it was one of deep
seclusion to me. I welcomed with rapture our return to the country, and
had so far awakened from dream-life, as to prepare myself with
steadiness of purpose for the realities of my destiny.
Edith rebelled against her mother's decision. There was no need of such
a thing. I was too young, too delicate, too sensitive for so rough a
task. There was a plenty of robust country girls to assist Mr. Regulus,
if he wanted them to, without depriving her of her companion and sister.
She appealed to Dr. Harlowe, in her sweet, bewitching way, which always
seemed irresistible; but he only gave her a genial smile, called me "a
brave little girl," and bade me "God speed." "I wish Richard Clyde were
here," said she, in her own artless, half-childish manner, "I am sure he
would be on my side. I wish brother Ernest would come home, he would
decide the question. Oh, Gabriella, if you only knew brother Ernest!"
If I have not mentioned this _brother Ernest_ before, it is not because
I had not heard his name repeated a thousand times. He was the only son
and brother of the family, who, having graduated with the first honors
at the college of his native State, was completing his education in
Germany, at the celebrated University of Gottingen. There was a picture
of him in the library, taken just before he left the country, on which I
had gazed, till it was to me a living being. It was a dark, fascinating
face,--a face half of sunshine and half shadow, a face of mysterious
meanings; as different from Edith's as night from morning. It reminded
me of the head of Byron, but it expressed deeper sensibility, and the
features were even more symmetrically handsome.
Edith, who was as frank and artless as a child, was always talking of
her brother, of his brilliant talents, his genius, and peculiarities.
She showed me his letters, which were written with extraordinary beauty
and power, though the sentiments were somewhat obscured by a
transcendental mistiness belonging to the atmosphere he breathed.
"Ernest never was like anybody else," said Edith; "he is the most
singular, but the most fascinating of human beings. Oh Gabriella, I long
to have him come back, that you may know and admire him."
Though I knew by ten thousand signs that this absent son was the first
object of Mrs. Linwood's thoughts, she seldom talked of him to me. She
often, when Edith was indulging in her enthusiastic descriptions of him,
endeavored to change the conversation and turn my thoughts in other
channels.
But why do I speak of Ernest Linwood here? It is premature. I was about
to describe a little part of my experience as a village teacher.
Edith had a beautiful little pony, gentle as a lamb, yet very spirited
withal, (for lame though she was, she was a graceful and fearless
equestrian,) which it was arranged that I should ride every morning,
escorted by a servant, who carried the pony back for Edith's use. Dr.
Harlowe, who resided near the academy, said I was always to dine at his
house, and walk home in the evening. They must not make too much of a
fine lady of me. I must exercise, if I would gather the roses of health.
Surely no young girl could begin the ordeal of duty under kinder, more
favoring auspices.
After the first dreaded morning when Mr. Regulus, tall, stately, and
imposing, ushered me into the apartment where I was to preside with
delegated authority, led me up a low flight of steps and waved his hand
towards a high magisterial arm-chair which was to be my future throne, I
felt a degree of self-confidence that surprised and encouraged me. Every
thing was so novel, so fresh, it imparted an elasticity to my spirits I
had not felt in Mrs. Linwood's luxurious home. Then there was something
self-sustaining, inspiring in the consciousness of intellectual exertion
and moral courage, in the thought that I was doing some little good in
the world, that I was securing the approbation of Mrs. Linwood and of
the excellent Dr. Harlowe. The children, who had most of them been my
fellow pupils, looked upon Gabriella Lynn, the protégée of the rich Mrs.
Linwood, as a different being from Gabriella Lynn of the little gray
cottage in the woods. I have no doubt they thought it very grand to ride
on that beautiful pony, with its saddle-cloth of blue and silver, and
glittering martingale, escorted by a servant too! Had they been disposed
to rebel at my authority, they would not have dared to do so, for Mr.
Regulus, jealous for my new dignity, watched over it with an eagle eye.
Where were the chains, whose prophetic clanking had chilled my misgiving
heart? They were transformed to flowery garlands, of daily renewing
fragrance and bloom. My desk was literally covered with blossoms while
their season lasted, and little fairy fingers were always twining with
wreaths the dark hair they loved to arrange according to their own
juvenile fancies.
My noon hours at Dr. Harlowe's, were pleasant episodes in my daily life.
Mrs. Harlowe was an excellent woman. She was called by the villagers "a
most superior woman,"--and so she was, if admirable housekeeping and
devotion to her husband's interests entitled her to the praise. She was
always busy; but the doctor, though he had a wide sweep of practice in
the surrounding country, always seemed at leisure. There was something
so cheerful, so encouraging about him, despondency fled from his
presence and gave place to hope.
I love to recall this era of my life. If I have known deeper happiness,
more exalted raptures, they were dearly purchased by the sacrifice of
the peace, the salubrity of mind I then enjoyed. I had a little room of
my own there, where I was as much at home as I was at Mrs. Linwood's.
There was a place for my bonnet and parasol, a shelf for my books, a low
rocking-chair placed at the pleasantest window for me; and, knowing Mrs.
Harlowe's methodical habits, I was always careful to leave every thing,
as I found it, in Quaker-like order. This was the smallest return I
could make for her hospitality, and she appreciated it far beyond its
merits. The good doctor, with all his virtues, tried the patience of his
wife sometimes beyond its limits, by his excessive carelessness. He
_would_ forget to hang his hat in the hall, and toss it on the bright,
polished mahogany table. He _would_ forget to use the scraper by the
steps, or the mat by the door, and leave tracks on the clean floor or
nice carpet. These little things really worried her; I could see they
did. She never said any thing; but she would get up, take up the hat,
brush the table with her handkerchief, and hang the hat in its right
place, or send the house-girl with the broom after his disfiguring
tracks.
"Pardon me, my dear," he would say with imperturbable
good-nature,--"really, I am too forgetful. I must have a self-regulating
machine attached to my movements,--a portable duster and hat-catcher.
But, the blessed freedom of home. It constitutes half its joy. Dear me!
I would not exchange the privilege of doing as I please for the
emperorship of the celestial realms."
But, pleasant as were my noon rests, my homeward walks were pleasanter
still. The dream-girl, after being awake for long hours to the practical
duties of life, loved to ramble alone, till she felt herself involved in
the soft haziness of thought, which was to the soul what the blue
mistiness was to the distant hills. I could wander then alone to the
churchyard, and yield myself unmolested to the sacred influences of
memory. Do you remember my asking Richard Clyde to plant a white rose by
my mother's grave? He had done so, soon after her burial, and now, when
rather more than a year had passed, it was putting forth fair buds and
blossoms, and breathing of renovation over the ruins of life. I never
saw this rose-tree without blessing the hand which planted it; and I
loved to sit on the waving grass and listen to the soft summer wind
stealing through it, rustling among the dry blades and whispering with
the green ones.
There was one sentence that fell from my mother's dying lips which ever
came to me in the sighs of the gale, fraught with mournful mystery.
"Because man was _false_, I dared to think God was unjust." And had she
not adjured me by every precious and every solemn consideration, "to
forgive the _living_, if living _he_ indeed was?"
I knew these words referred to my father; and what a history of wrong
and sorrow was left for my imagination to fill up! Living!--my father
living! Oh! there is no grave so deep as that dug by the hand of neglect
or desertion! He had been dead to my mother,--he had been dead to me. I
shuddered at the thought of breathing the same vital element. He who had
broken a mother's heart must be a fiend, worthy of eternal abhorrence.
"If you live to years of womanhood," said my expiring mother, "and your
heart awakens to love, as alas for woman's destiny it will, then read my
life's sad experience, and be warned by my example."
Sad prophetess! Death has consecrated thy prediction, but it is yet
unfulfilled. When will womanhood commence, on whose horizon the morning
star of love is to rise in clouded lustre?
Surely I am invested with a woman's dignity, in that great arm-chair,
behind the green-covered desk. I feel very much like a blown rose,
surrounded by the rose-bud garland of childhood. Yet Dr. Harlowe calls
me "little girl," and Mr. Regulus "my child," when the pupils are not
by; then it is "Miss Gabriella." They forget that I am sixteen, and that
I have grown taller and more womanly in the last year; but the awakening
heart has not yet throbbed at its dawning destiny, the day-star of love
has not risen on its slumbers.