One week, and another week passed by, and every evening was as charming
as the first of the return of Ernest Linwood. In that fortnight were
compressed the social and intellectual joys of a lifetime. Music,
reading, and conversation filled the measure of the evening hours. Such
music, such reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I
had been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear mother, to
Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I had reason to think I
could read remarkably well; but I could not read like Ernest,--I never
heard any one that could. He infused his own soul into the soul of the
author, and brought out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat
like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. Mrs.
Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but
listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins
throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek.
"You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated
glance.
"Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the
passion of my soul."
"You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry," said he, with a
smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my language, "which is the
regal one, the passion of passions?"
"I can hardly imagine the existence of one without the other," I
answered, "their harmony is so entire; flowers are silent poetry, and
poetry is written music."
"And music?" he asked.
"Is the breath of heaven, the language of angels. As the voice of Echo
lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, when her beauteous
frame had vanished, so music remains to show the angel nature we have
lost."
I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion warmed my soul.
"Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, "and may well speak of the
magic of numbers. She has a portfolio, filled with papers written, like
Ezekiel's scroll, within and without. I wish you would let me get it,
Gabriella,--do."
"Impossible!" I answered, "I never wrote but one poem for exhibition,
and the experience of that hour was sufficient for a lifetime."
"You were but a child then, Gabriella. Mr. Regulus would give it a very
different reception now, I know he would," said Edith.
"If it is a child's story, will you not relate it?" asked Ernest; "you
have excited my curiosity."
"Curiosity, brother, I thought you possessed none."
"Interest is a better word. If I understand aright, the buddings of
Gabriella's genius met with an untimely blight."
I know not how it was, but I felt in an exceedingly ingenuous mood, and
I related this episode in my childish history without reserve. I touched
lightly on the championship of Richard Clyde, but I was obliged to
introduce it. I had forgotten that he was associated with the narration,
or I should have been silent.
"This youthful knight, and the hero of commencement day are one, then,"
observed Ernest. "He is a fortunate youth, with the myrtle and the
laurel both entwining his brows; you must be proud of your champion."
"I am _grateful_ to him," I replied, resolved to make a bold effort to
remove the impression I knew he had received. Mrs. Linwood was not
present, or I could not have spoken as I did. "He defended me because he
thought I was oppressed; he befriended me because my friends were few.
He has the generous spirit of chivalry which cannot see wrong without
seeking to redress it, or suffering without wishing to relieve it. I am
under unspeakable obligations to him, for he it was who spoke kindly of
the obscure little girl to your mother and sister, and obtained for me
the priceless blessing of their love."
"I dare say _they_ feel very grateful to him, likewise," said he, in a
tone of genuine feeling. "I acknowledge _my_ share of the obligation.
But is he so disinterested as to claim no recompense, or does he find
that chivalry, like goodness, is its own exceeding great reward?"
"I thought I regarded him as a brother, till now Edith has convinced me
I am mistaken."
"How so?" he asked, with so peculiar an expression, I forgot what I was
going to say.
"How so?" he repeated, while Edith leaned towards him and laid her hand
on his.
"By showing me how strong and fervent a sister's love can be."
His eyes flashed; they looked like fountains of light, full to
overflowing. His arm involuntarily encircled Edith, and a smile,
beautiful as a woman's, curled his lips.
"How he does love her!" thought I; "strong indeed must be the counter
charm, that can rival hers."
I had never seen his spirits so light as they were the remainder of the
evening. They rose even to gaiety; and again I wondered what had become
of the reserve and moodiness whose dark shadow had preceded his
approach.
"We are so happy now," said Edith, when we were alone, "I dread the
interruption of company. Ernest does not care for it, and if it be of an
uncongenial kind, he wraps himself in a mantle of reserve, that neither
sun nor wind can unfold. After commencement, our house will be
overflowing with city friends. They will return with us, and we shall
not probably be alone again for the whole summer."
She sighed at the anticipation, and I echoed the sound. I was somebody
now; but what a nobody I should dwindle into, in comparison with the
daughters of wealth and fashion who would gather at Grandison Place!
"Ernest must like you very much, Gabriella, or he would not show the
interest he does in all that concerns you. You do not know what a
compliment he pays you, because you have not seen him in company with
other young girls. I have sometimes felt quite distressed at his
indifference when they have been my guests. He has such a contempt for
affectation and display, that he cannot entirely conceal it. He is not
apt to express his opinion of any one, but there are indirect ways of
discovering it. I found him this morning in the library, standing before
that beautiful picture of the Italian flower girl, which you admire so
much. He was so absorbed, that he did not perceive my entrance, till I
stole behind him and laid my hand on his shoulder. 'Do you not see a
likeness?' he asked. 'To whom?' 'To Gabriella.' 'To Gabriella!' I
repeated. 'Yes, it is like her, but I never observed it before.' 'A very
striking resemblance,' he said, 'only she has more mind in her face.'"
"That enchanting picture like me!" I exclaimed, "impossible! There is,
there can be no likeness. It is nothing but association. He knows I am
the flower-girl of the house, and that is the reason he thought of me."
I tried to speak with indifference, but my voice trembled with delight.
The next morning, when I came in from the garden, all laden with
flowers, an irresistible impulse drew me to the library. It was very
early. The hush of repose still lingered over the household, and that
particular apartment, in which the silent eloquence of books, paintings,
and statues hung like a solemn spell, seemed in such deep quietude, I
started at the light echo of my own footsteps.
I stole with guilty consciousness towards the picture, in whose
lineaments the fastidious eye of Ernest Linwood had traced a similitude
to mine. They were all engraven on my memory, but now they possessed a
new fascination; and I stood before it, gazing into the soft, dark
depths of the eyes, in which innocent mildness and bashful tenderness
were mingled like the _clare-obscure_ of an Italian moonlight; gazing on
the dawning smile that seemed to play over the beautiful and glowing
lips, and the bright, rich, dark hair, so carelessly, gracefully
arranged you could almost see the balmy breezes of her native clime
rustling amid the silken tresses; on the charming contour of the head
and neck, slightly turned as if about to look back and give a parting
glance at the garden she had reluctantly quitted.
As I thus stood, with my hands loaded with blossoms, a flower basket
suspended from my arm, and a straw hat such as shepherdesses wear, on my
head,--my garden costume,--involuntarily imitating the attitude of the
lovely flower girl, the door, which had been left ajar, silently opened,
and Ernest Linwood entered.
Had I been detected in the act of stealing or counterfeiting money, I
could not have felt more intense shame. He knew what brought me there. I
saw it in his penetrating eye, his half-suppressed smile; and, ready to
sink with mortification, I covered my face with the roses I held in my
hands.
"Do you admire the picture?" he asked, advancing to where I stood; "do
you perceive the resemblance?"
I shook my head without answering; I was too much disconcerted to speak.
What would he think of my despicable vanity, my more than childish
foolishness?
"I am glad to see we have congenial tastes," he said, with a smile in
his voice. "I came on purpose to gaze on that charming representation of
youth and innocence, without dreaming that its original was by it."
"Original!" I repeated. "Surely you do mock me,--'t is but a fancy
sketch,--and in nought but youth and flowers resembles me."
"We cannot see ourselves, and it is well we cannot. The image reflected
from the mirror is but a cold, faint shadow of the living, breathing
soul. But why this deep confusion,--that averted face and downcast eye?
Have I offended by my intrusion? Do you wish me to withdraw, and yield
to you the privilege of solitary admiration?"
"It is I who am the intruder," I answered, looking wistfully towards the
door, through which I was tempted to rush at once. "I thought you had
not risen,--I thought,--I came"--
"And why did you come at this hour, Gabriella? and what has caused such
excessive embarrassment? Will you not be ingenuous enough to tell me?"
"I will," answered I, calmed by the gentle composure of his manner, "if
you will assert that you do not know already."
"I do not _know_, but I can _imagine_. Edith has betrayed my admiration
of that picture. You came to justify my taste, and to establish beyond a
doubt the truth of the likeness."
"No, indeed! I did not; I cannot explain the impulse which led me
hither. I only wish I had resisted it as I ought."
I suppose I must have looked quite miserable, from the efforts he made
to restore my self-complacency. He took the basket from my arm and
placed it on the table, moved a chair forward for me, and another for
himself, as if preparing for a morning _tête à tête_.
"What would Mrs. Linwood say, if she saw me here at this early hour
alone with her son?" thought I, obeying his motion, and tossing my hat
on the light stairs that were winding up behind me. I did not fell the
possibility of declining the interview, for there was a power about him
which overmastered without their knowing it the will of others.
"If you knew how much more pleasing is the innocent shame and artless
sensibility you manifest, than the ease and assurance of the practised
worldling, you would not blush for the impulse which drew you hither. To
the sated taste and weary eye, simplicity and truth are refreshing as
the spring-time of nature after its dreary winter. The cheek that
blushes, the eye that moistens, and the heart that palpitates, are
sureties of indwelling purity and candor. What a pity that they are as
evanescent as the bloom of these flowers and the fragrance they exhale!
You have never been in what is called the great world?"
"Never. I passed one winter in Boston; but I was in deep mourning and
did not go into society. Besides, your mother thought me too young. It
was more than a year ago."
"You will be considered old enough this winter. Do you not look forward
with eager anticipations and bright hopes to the realization of youth's
golden dreams?"
"I as often look forward with dread as hope. I am told they who see much
of the world, lose their faith in human virtue, their belief in
sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good and fair. All the
pleasures of the world would not be an equivalent for the loss of
these."
"And do you possess all these now?"
"I think I do. I am sure I ought. I have never yet been deceived. I
should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, as soon as the truth
of those who have professed to love me. Your mother, Edith--and"--
"Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that truth-searching glance
which often brought unbidden words to my lips.
"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."
"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"
"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,--even supposing your
assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence
I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if _I_ turn
inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have
_you_, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling
influences which you deprecate for me?"
"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you
never been told so?"
"If I have, it required your own assertion to make me believe it."
"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle
hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,--just as much as
the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I
could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."
I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the
shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He
was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them
unconsciously on the floor.
"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.
"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel
hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.
"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."
"I know it; but I can remove the ruins."
I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could
not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of
his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk
of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when
wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing
coolness his meeting lips.
Oh, starver in the midst of God's plenty! think of the wretched sons of
famine, and be wise.
"You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to
one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do
I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy
lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine,
leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an
atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with
the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms."
He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it
to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own
image.
"Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the
union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the
sunbeams,--thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of
these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition.
"A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his
natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good."
"How so? These are all select works,--golden sheaves of knowledge,
gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand."
"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more
than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason
why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity
of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."
"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in
sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with
enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by
the hand of God, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the
shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories
reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright."
"Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever
thus read?"
I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,--it was so
rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the
passing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that _deep, under
chord_, which breathes in low, passionate strains, life's tender and
pathetic mirror.
"I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen
of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the
earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's
various climes are around and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at
your bidding, and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold.
And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human heart are laid
bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. But I am detaining
you too long. Your languid blossoms reproach me. When you come here
again, do not forget that we have here thought and felt in unison."
Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. She started on
seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an anxious, troubled look.
"You are become an early riser, my son," she said.
"You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my mother?"
"Certainly; but it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning air would be
more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp with the mould of
antiquity."
"We have brought the dewy morning within doors," said he; while I,
gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Linwood to move,
that I might leave the room. She stood between me and the threshold, and
for the first time I noticed in her face a resemblance to her son. It
might be because a slight cloud rested on her brow.
"You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morning," she
gravely observed to me. "It is almost the breakfast hour, and you are
still in your garden costume."
My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the fear of her
displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left its glow upon my
cheek.
"Let me assist you," he cried, in an animated tone. "It was I who
encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, if blame indeed there
be. There is a homely proverb, that 'many hands make light work.' Come,
let us prove its truth."
I thought Mrs. Linwood sighed, as he followed me into the drawing-room,
and with quick, graceful fingers, made ample amends for the negligence
be had caused. His light, careless manner restored me to ease, and at
breakfast Mrs. Linwood's countenance wore its usual expression of calm
benevolence.
Had I done wrong? I had sought no clandestine interview. Why should I?
It was foolish to wish to look at the beautiful flower girl; but it was
a natural, innocent wish, born of something purer and better than vanity
and self-love.