As I had made an engagement with Mr. Regulus for one year, I remained
with Dr. Harlowe's family during the winter months, while Mrs. Linwood
and Edith returned to the city.
The only novelty of that wintry season was the first correspondence of
my life. Could any thing prove more strikingly my isolated position in
the world than this single fact? It was quite an era in my existence
when I received Mrs. Linwood's and Edith's first letters; and when I
answered them, it seemed to me my heart was flowing out in a gushing
stream of expression, that had long sought vent. I knew they must have
smiled at my exuberance of language, for the young enthusiast always
luxuriates under epistolary influences. I had another correspondent, a
very unexpected one, Richard Clyde, who, sanctioned by Mrs. Linwood,
begged permission to write to me as a _friend_. How could I refuse, when
Mrs. Linwood said it would be a source of intellectual improvement as
well as pleasure? These letters occupied much of my leisure time, and
were escape-pipes to an imagination of the high-pressure kind. My old
love of rhyming, too, rose from the ashes of former humiliation, and I
wove many a garland of poesy, though no one but myself inhaled their
fragrance or admired their bloom.
"As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean,
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,--"
So in the solitude of my chamber, in the loneliness of my heart, in the
breathing stillness of the night, blossomed the moon-born flowers of
poesy, to beautify and gladden my youth.
Thus glided away the last tranquil season of my life. As was one day, so
was the next. Mrs. Harlowe's clock-work virtues, which never run down,
the doctor's agreeable carelessness and imperturbable good-humor, the
exceeding kindness of Mr. Regulus, who grew so gentle, that he almost
seemed melancholy,--all continued the same. In reading, writing,
thinking, feeling, hoping, reaching forward to an uncertain future, the
season of fireside enjoyments and comforts passed,--spring,--summer.
Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned, and I was once more installed in that
charming apartment, amid whose rosy decorations "I seemed," as Edith
said, "a fairy queen." I walked once more in the moon-lighted colonnade,
in the shadow of the granite walls, and felt that I was born to be
there.
One evening as I returned home, I saw Edith coming through the lawn to
meet me, so rapidly that she seemed borne on wings,--her white drapery
fell in such full folds over her crutches it entirely concealed them,
and they made no sound on the soft, thick grass. Her face was perfectly
radiant.
"Oh, Gabriella," she exclaimed, "he is coming,--brother is coming
home,--he will be here in less than a week,--oh! I am so happy!"
And the sweet, affectionate creature leaned her head on my shoulder, and
actually sobbed in the fulness of her joy. My own heart palpitated with
strange emotions, with mingled curiosity, eagerness, and dread.
"Dear Edith," I cried, putting my arms around her, and kissing her fair,
infantine cheek, "I rejoice with you,--I could envy you if I dared. What
a blessing it must be to have a brother capable of inspiring so much
love!"
"He shall be your brother too, Gabriella! For, are you not my sister?
and of course he must be your brother. Come, let us sit down under the
dear old elm and talk about him, for my heart is so full that I can
speak and think of nothing else."
"And now," added she, as we sat under the kingly canopy of verdure,--on
a carpet of living velvet,--"let me tell you why I love Ernest so very,
very dearly. My father died when I was a little child, a little feeble
child, a cripple as well as an invalid. Ernest is four years older than
myself, and though when I was a little child he was but a very young
boy, he always seemed a protector and guardian to me. He never cared
about play like other children, loving his book better than any thing
else, but willing to leave even that to amuse and gratify me. Oh! I used
to suffer so much, so dreadfully,--I could not lie down, I could not sit
up without pain,--no medicine would give me any relief. Hour after hour
would Ernest hold me in his arms, and carry me about in the open air,
never owning he was weary while he could give me one moment's ease. No
one thought I would live beyond childhood, and I have no doubt many
believed that death would be a blessing to the poor, crippled child.
They did not know how dear life was to me in spite of all my sufferings;
for had I always been well, I never should have known those tender,
cherishing cares which have filled my heart with so much love. It is so
sweet to be petted and caressed as I have been!"
"It did not need sickness and suffering to make _you_ beloved, Edith," I
cried, twisting my fingers in her soft, golden curls. "Who could help
loving you and wishing to caress you?"
"Yes it did, Gabriella; my Heavenly Father knew that it did, or He would
never have laid upon me His chastening hand. Sickness and pain have been
my only chastisements, and they are all past. I am not very strong, but
I am well; and though a cripple, my wooden feet serve me wonderfully
well. I am so used to them now, they seem a part of myself."
"I can never think of you as walking," I said, taking one of the
crutches that leaned against the tree. The part which fitted under the
arm was covered with a cushion of blue velvet, and the rosewood staff
was mounted with silver. "You manage these so gracefully, one scarcely
misses your feet."
"But Ernest, dear Ernest," interrupted she, "let us talk of him. You
must not be influenced too much by my mother's words. She adores him,
but her standard of perfection is so exalted few can attain it. The very
excess of her love makes her alive to his defects. She knows your vivid
imagination, and fears my lavish praises will lead you to expect a being
of super-human excellence. Oh, another thing I wanted to tell you. The
uncle, for whom he was named, has died and left him a splendid fortune,
which he did not need very much, you know. Had it not been for this
circumstance, he would not have come back till autumn; and now he will
be here in a week,--in less than a week. Oh, Gabriella, Grandison Place
must shine for its master's welcome."
Another splendid fortune added to his own! Further and further still,
seemed he removed from me. But what difference did it make? Why did I
think of him in reference to myself? How dared I do it, foolish and
presumptuous girl! Then, he was seven years older than myself. How
mature! He would probably look upon me as a little girl; and if he
granted me the honors of womanhood, the student of Gottingen, the heir
of two great fortunes would scarcely notice the village teacher, save as
the orphan protégée of his mother.
I did not indulge these thoughts. I repelled them, for they were selfish
and uncomfortable. If every one recorded their thoughts as I do, would
they not, like me, pray for the blotting angel's tears?
In one week! How soon!
Mrs. Linwood, quiet and serene as she was, participated in Edith's
joyful excitement. She departed from her usual reliance on the subject,
and checked not Edith's glowing warmth.
In a family so wealthy, a dwelling so abounding in all the elegancies
and luxuries of life, the coming of a prince would not have occasioned
any necessary disturbance. The chamber of the son and brother had been
long prepared, but now the fastidious eye of affection discovered many
deficiencies. The pictures must be changed in position; some wanted
more, some less light; the curtains were too heavy, the flower vases too
gorgeous.
"Does he mind these things much?" I ventured to ask.
"He likes to see every thing round him elegant and classic," replied
Edith; "he has the most fastidious taste in the world. I am so glad,
Gabriella, that you are pretty, that you are really classically
beautiful, for he will think so much more of you for being so. He ought
not, perhaps; but one cannot help having a fine taste. He cannot abide
any thing coarse or unrefined."
"He will not think of me at all, I am sure he will not," I answered,
while a vivid blush of pleasure at her sweet flattery stole over my
cheek.