The next morning, as I was coming up the steps with my white muslin
apron fall of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Linwood. I was always an
early riser. Dear, faithful Peggy had taught me this rural habit, and I
have reason to bless her for it.
"I see where you get your roses," said he; I knew he did not mean the
roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded grew brighter as he
spoke.
"Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own apartment?" he
asked, as he turned back and entered the house with me, "or was it
Edith's sisterly hand placed them there?"
"Are you pleased with them?" I said, with a childish delight. It seemed
to me a great thing that he had noticed them at all. "As Edith is lame,
she indulges me in carrying out her own sweet tastes. I assure you I
esteem it an inestimable privilege."
"You love flowers, then?"
"O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for them."
"And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in spite of your
passionate love?"
"Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change from blossom
to blossom."
"You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something chilling in his
tone, "it is not love you feel for them, for that is unchangeable, and
admits but one object."
"I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily arranging the
flowers in their vases, in which I had already placed some icy cold
water. He walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to observe
the process, and making some passing remark. I was astonished at finding
myself so much at ease. I suppose the awe he inspired, like the fear of
ghosts, subsided at the dawning of morning. There was something so
exhilarating in the pure fresh air, in the dewy brightness of the hour,
in the exercise of roaming through a wilderness of sweets, that my
spirits were too elastic to be held down. He seemed to take an interest
in watching me, and even altered the position of some white roses, which
he said wanted a shading of green.
"And what are these beautiful clusters laid aside for?" he asked, taking
up some which I had deposited on the table.
"I thought," I answered, after a slight hesitation, "that Edith would
like them for your room."
"Then it is only to please Edith you place them there, not to please
yourself?"
"I should not dare to do it to please myself," I hastily replied.
I thought I must have said something wrong, for he turned away with a
peculiar smile. I colored with vexation, and was glad that Edith came in
to divert his attention from me.
Nothing could be more gentle and affectionate than his greeting. He went
up and kissed her, as if she were a little child, put his arm round her,
and taking one of her crutches, made her lean on him for support. I
understood something of the secret of her idolatry.
Where was the impenetrable reserve of which his mother had spoken?
I had not yet seen him in society. As he talked with Edith, his head
slightly bent and his profile turned towards me, I could look at him
unobserved, and I was struck even more than the evening before with the
transparent paleness of his complexion. Dark, delicate, and smooth as
alabaster, it gave an air of extreme refinement and sensibility to his
face, without detracting from its manliness or intellectual power. It
was a face to peruse, to study, to think of,--it was a baffling,
haunting face. Hieroglyphics of thought were there, too mysterious for
the common eye to interpret. It was a dark lantern, flashing light
before it, itself all in shadow.
"It is a shame that you must leave us, Gabriella," said Edith, when
after breakfast her pony was brought to the door. "Ernest," added she,
turning to him, "I am _so_ glad you are come. You must persuade mamma to
lay her commands on Gabriella, and not permit her to make such a slave
of herself. I feel guilty to be at home doing nothing and she toiling
six long hours."
"It is Gabriella's own choice," cried Mrs. Linwood, a slight flush
crossing her cheek. "Is it not, my child?"
"Your wisdom guided my choice, dear madam," I answered, "and I thank you
for it."
"It would seem more natural to think of Miss--of Gabriella--as a pupil,
than a teacher," observed Ernest, "if youth is the criterion by which we
judge."
"I am seventeen--in my eighteenth year," said I eagerly, urged by an
unaccountable desire that he should not think me too young.
"A very grave and reverend age!" said he sarcastically.
I thought Mrs. Linwood looked unusually serious, and fearing I had said
something wrong, I hastened to depart. Dearly as I loved my
benefactress, it was not "that perfect love which casteth out fear." As
her benevolence was warm, her justice was inflexible. Hers was the kind
hand, but the firm nerves that could sustain a friend, while the knife
of the surgeon entered the quivering flesh. She shrunk not from
inflicting pain, if it was for another's good; but if she wounded with
one hand, she strewed balm with the other. Her influence was strong,
controlling, almost irresistible. Like the sunshine that forced the
wind-blown traveller to throw aside his cloak, the warmth of her
kindness penetrated, but it also _compelled_.
I had a growing conviction that though she called me her adopted child,
she did not wish me to presume upon her kindness so far as to look upon
her son in the familiar light of a brother. There was no fear of my
transgressing her wishes in this respect. I had already lost my
dread,--my awe was melting away, but I could no more approach him with
familiarity than if fourfold bars of gold surrounded him. I had another
conviction, that she encouraged and wished me to return the attachment
of Richard Clyde. Her urgent advice had induced me to accept the
proffered correspondence with him,--a compliance which I afterwards
bitterly regretted. He professed to write only as a _friend_, according
to the bond, but amid the evergreen wreath of friendship, he concealed
the glowing flowers of love. He was to return home in a few weeks. The
commencement was approaching, which was to liberate him from scholastic
fetters and crown him with the honors of manhood.
"Why," thought I, "should Richard make me dread his return, when I would
gladly welcome him with joy? Why in wishing to be more than a friend,
does he make me desire that he should be less? And now Ernest Linwood is
come back, of whom he so strangely warned me, methinks I dread him more
than ever."
Mrs. Linwood would attend the commencement. I had heard her tell Richard
so. I had heard her repeat her intention since her son's return. _He_,
of course, would feel interested in meeting his old class mates and
friends. They would all feel interested in seeing and hearing how
Richard Clyde sustained his proud distinction.
"Gabriella, especially," said Edith with a smile, which, sweet as it
was, I thought extremely silly. I blushed with vexation, when Ernest,
lifting his grave eyes from his book, asked who was Richard Clyde.
"You have seen him when he was quite a youth," answered his mother, "but
have probably forgotten him. He is a young man of great promise, and has
been awarded the first honors of his class. I feel a deep interest in
him for his own sake, and moreover I am indebted to him for my
introduction to our own Gabriella."
"Indeed!" repeated her son, and glancing towards me, his countenance
lighted up with a sudden look of intelligence.
Why need Mrs. Linwood have said that? Why need she have associated him
so intimately and significantly with me? And why could I not keep down
the rising crimson, which might be attributed to another source than
embarrassment? I opened my lips to deny any interest in Richard beyond
that of friendly acquaintanceship; but Mrs. Linwood's mild, serene, yet
resolute eyes, beat mine down and choked my eager utterance.
Her eyes said as clearly as words could say, "what matters it to my son,
how little or how great an interest you feel in Richard Clyde or any
other person?"
"You must accompany us, Gabriella," she said, with great kindness. "You
have never witnessed this gathering of the literati of our State, and I
know of no one who would enjoy it more. It will be quite an intellectual
banquet."
"I thank you, but I cannot accept the invitation," I answered,
suppressing a sigh, not of disappointment at the necessity of refusal,
but of mortification at the inference that would probably be drawn from
this conversation. "My vacation does not begin till afterwards."
"I think I can intercede with Mr. Regulus to release you," said Mrs.
Linwood.
"Thank you,--I do not wish to go,--indeed I would much rather not,
unless," I added, fearful I had spoken too energetically, "you have an
urgent desire that I should."
"I wish very much to make you happy, and I think you would enjoy far
more than you now anticipate. But there is time enough to decide. There
will be a fortnight hence."
"But the dresses, mamma," cried Edith; "you know she will need new
dresses if she goes, and they will require some time to prepare."
"As Gabriella will not _come out_, as it is called, till next winter,"
replied Mrs. Linwood, "it is not a matter of so much consequence as you
imagine. Simplicity is much more charming than ornament in the dress of
a very young girl."
"I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting his eyes
from his book, "especially where artificial ornaments are superfluous."
"I did not think you were listening to our remarks about dress," said
Edith. "This is something quite new, brother."
"I am _not_ listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful not to betray
yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had better retire to the library,
then you can discuss with more freedom the mysteries of the toilet and
the fascinations of dress."
"No,--no. We have nothing to say that you may not hear;" but he rose and
withdrew. Did he mean to imply that "artificial ornaments would be
superfluous" to me? No,--it was only a general remark, and it would be
vanity of vanities to apply it to myself.
"I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella," continued
Edith. "Please lay aside your mourning and assume a more cheerful garb.
You have worn it two long years. Only think how long! It will be so
refreshing to see you in white or delicate colors."
I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow typified by
their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The awful scenes they
commemorated,--the throes of agony which rent away life from the strong,
the slow wasting of the feeble, the solemnity of death, the gloom of the
grave, the anguish of bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that
followed,--all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment.
"I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," I exclaimed;
and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears gushed unrestrainedly.
"I shall never cease to mourn for my mother."
"I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, putting her arms
round me with sympathizing tenderness. "I thought time had softened your
anguish, and that you could bear to speak of it now."
"And so she ought," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of mild rebuke. "Time
is God's ministering angel, commissioned to bind up the wounds of sorrow
and to heal the bleeding heart. The same natural law which bids flowers
to spring up and adorn the grave-sod causes the blossoms of hope to
bloom again in the bosom of bereavement. Memory should be immortal, but
mourning should last but a season."
"I meant that I never should forget her," I cried, my tears flowing
gently under her subduing accents. "Dear Mrs. Linwood, you have made it
impossible for me always to mourn. Yet there are times, when her
remembrance comes over me with such a power that I am borne down by it
to the level of my first deep anguish. These are not frequent now. I
some times fear there is danger of my being too happy after sustaining
such a loss."
"Beware, my dear child, of cherishing the morbid sensibility which
believes happiness inconsistent with the remembrance of departed
friends. Life to your mother, since your recollection of her, was a sad
boon. As she possessed the faith, and died the death of the Christian,
you are authorized to believe that she now possesses an exceeding and
eternal weight of glory. Can you take in the grandeur of the idea,--_a
weight of glory_? Contrast it with the burden of care under which you
saw her crushed, and you will then be willing to exchange mourning for
the oil of joy, and the spirit of heaviness for the garment of praise."
"I _am_ willing, dear Mrs. Linwood, my kindest friend, my second mother.
I will in all things be guided by your counsel and moulded by your will.
No, oh no, I would not for worlds rob my mother of the glorious
inheritance purchased by a Saviour's blood. But tell me one thing,--must
we all pass through tribulation before entering the kingdom of heaven?
Must we all travel with bleeding feet the thorny path of suffering,
before being admitted into the presence of God?"
"The Bible must answer you, my child. Do you remember, in the
apocalyptic vision, when it was asked, 'What are these, which are
arrayed in white robes? and whence come they?' It was answered, 'These
are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their
robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"
"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and
night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among
them."
I remembered them well.
"Go on," I said, "that is not all."
"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the
sun light on them, nor any heat."
She paused, and her voice became tremulous from deep emotion.
"One verse more," I cried, "only one."
"For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and
shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all
tears from their eyes."
There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed vain and
sacrilegious after this sublimest language of revelation.
At length I said,--
"Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 'T is a sin to
mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has wiped away."