Commencement day!--a day of feverish anxiety and excitement to the young
student, who is to step forth before the public eye, a candidate for the
laurels of fame;--a day of weariness and stiffness to the dignified
professors, obliged to sit hour after hour, listening to the florid
eloquence whose luxuriance they have in vain attempted to prune, or
trying to listen while the spirit yawns and stretches itself to its
drowsy length;--a day of intense interest to the young maiden, who sees
among the youthful band of aspirants one who is the "bright particular
star" round which her pure and trembling hopes revolve.
It was a day of excitement to me, for every thing was novel, and
therefore interesting. It was the first time I had ever been in a dense
crowd, and I felt the electric fluid, always collected where the great
heart of humanity is throbbing, thrilling in my veins, and ready to
flash at the master-stroke of eloquence. I was dazzled by the brilliant
display of beauty and fashion that lighted up the classic walls as with
living sunbeams. Such clusters of mimic blossoms and flowing ringlets
wreathed together round fair, blooming faces; such a cloud of soft, airy
drapery floating over lithe figures, swaying forward like light boughs
agitated by the wind; such a fluttering of snowy fans, making the cool,
pleasant sound of rain drops pattering among April leaves; such bright
eager eyes, turned at every sounding step towards the open door,--I had
never looked upon the like before. I sat in a dream of delight, without
thinking that it might be thought vulgar to _appear_ delighted, and
still more to express undisguised admiration.
I dared not look to the platform, where the faculty and students were
arranged in imposing ranks, for there was one pair of familiar,
sparkling eyes, that were sure to beat mine back with their steadfast
gaze. I did not like this persevering scrutiny, for I was sure it would
attract the attention of others, and then draw it on myself. He had
grown taller, Richard Clyde had, since I had seen him, his countenance
was more manly, his manner more polished. He had been with us the
evening before, but the room was crowded with company, and I was careful
not to give him a moment's opportunity of speaking to me alone. But I
read too well in his sincere and earnest eyes, that time had wrought no
change in the fervor of his feelings, or the constancy of his
attachment.
Mrs. Linwood, though surrounded by friends of the most distinguished
character, honored him by signal marks of attention. I was proud of him
as a friend. Why did he wish to be more?
"What a fine young man Clyde is!" I heard some one remark who sat behind
us. "It is said he is the most promising student in the university."
"Yes," was the reply. "I have heard that several wealthy gentlemen in
Boston are going to send him to Europe to complete his education, as his
own income will not allow him to incur the expense."
"That is a great compliment," observed the first voice, "and I
have no doubt he deserves it. They say, too, that he is betrothed
to a young girl in the country, very pretty, but in most indigent
circumstances,--an early attachment,--children's romance."
Was it possible that village gossip had reached these venerable walls?
But hark to the other voice.
"I have heard so, but they say she has been adopted by a rich lady,
whose name I have forgotten. Her own mother was of very mysterious and
disreputable character, I am told, whom no one visited or respected.
Quite an outcast."
I started as if an arrow had passed through my ears, or rather entered
them, for it seemed quivering there. Never before had I heard one
sullying word breathed on the spotless snow of my mother's character. Is
it strange that the cold, venomous tongue of slander, hissing at my very
back, should make me shudder and recoil as if a serpent were there?
A hand touched my shoulder, lightly, gently, but I knew its touch,
though never felt but once before. I looked up involuntarily, and met
the eyes of Ernest Linwood, who was standing close to the seat I
occupied. I did not know he was there. He had wedged the crowd silently,
gradually, till he reached the spot he had quitted soon after our
entrance, to greet his former class mates. I knew by his countenance
that he had heard all, and a sick, deadly feeling came over me. He, to
hear my mother's name made a byword and reproach, myself alluded to as
the indigent daughter of an outcast,--he, who seemed already lifted as
high above me on the eagle wings of fortune, as the eyry of the
king-bird is above the nest of the swallow,--it was more than I could
bear.
I said I knew by his countenance that he had heard all. I never saw such
an expression as his face wore,--such burning indignation, such
withering scorn. I trembled to think of the central fires from which
such flames darted. As he caught my glance, an instantaneous change came
over it. Compassion softened every lineament. Still his eye of power
held me down. It said, "be quiet, be calm,--I am near, be not afraid."
"I wish I could get you a glass of water," said he, in a low voice, for
I suppose I looked deadly pale; "but it would be impossible I fear in
this crowd,--the aisles are impenetrable."
"Thank you," I answered, "there is no need,--but if I could only leave."
I looked despairingly at the masses of living beings on every side,
crowding the pews, filling the aisles, standing on the window-sills, on
the tops of the pews, leaning from the gallery,--and felt that I was a
prisoner. The sultry air of August, confined in the chapel walls, and
deprived of its vital principle by so many heaving lungs, weighed
oppressively on mine. I could feel behind me the breathing of the lips
of slander, and it literally seemed to scorch me. Ernest took my fan
from my hand and fanned me without intermission, or I think I must have
fainted.
As I sat with downcast eyes, whose drooping lashes were heavy with
unshed tears, I saw a glass of water held before me by an unsteady hand.
I looked up and saw Richard Clyde, his student's robe of flowing black
silk gathered up by his left arm, who had literally forced his way
through a triple row of men. We were very near the platform, there being
but one row of pews between.
I drank the water eagerly, gratefully. Even before those blistering
words were uttered, I had felt as if a glass of cold water would be
worth all the gems of the East; now it was life itself.
"Are you ill, Gabriella?" whispered Mrs. Linwood, who with Edith sat
directly in front, and whose eyes had watched anxiously the motions of
Richard. "Ah! I see this heat is killing you."
"_That is she_, I do believe," hissed the serpent tongue behind me.
"Hush, she may hear you."
All was again still around me, the stillness of the multitudinous sea,
for every wave of life heaved restlessly, producing a kind of murmur,
like that of rustling leaves in an autumnal forest. Then a sound loud as
the thunders of the roaring ocean came rushing on the air. It was the
burst of acclamation which greeted Richard Clyde, first in honor though
last in time. I bent my ear to listen, but the words blent confusedly
together, forming one wave of utterance, that rolled on without leaving
one idea behind. I knew he was eloquent, from the enthusiastic applause
which occasionally interrupted him, but I had lost the power of
perception; and had Demosthenes risen from his grave, it would scarcely
have excited in me any emotion.
Was this my introduction to that world,--that great world, of which I
had heard and thought and dreamed so much? How soon had my garlands
faded,--my fine gold become dim! Could they not have spared me one day,
_me_, who had never injured them? And yet they might aim their barbed
darts at me. I would not care for that,--oh, no, it was not that. It was
the blow that attacked an angel mother's fame. O my mother! could they
not spare thee even in thy grave, where the wicked are said to cease
from troubling and the weary are at rest? Could they not let thee sleep
in peace, thou tempest-tost and weary hearted, even in the dark and
narrow house, sacred from the footstep of the living?
Another thundering burst of applause called my spirit from the
grass-grown sod, made damp and green by the willow's shade, to the
crowded church and the bustle and confusion of life. Then followed the
presentation of the parchment rolls and the ceremonies usual at the
winding up of this time-honored day. It all seemed like unmeaning
mummery to me. The majestic president, with his little flat black cap,
set like a tile on the top of his head, was a man of pasteboard and
springs, and even the beautiful figures that lighted up the walls had
lost their coloring and life. There was, indeed, a wondrous change,
independent of that within my own soul. The excessive heat had wilted
these flowers of loveliness and faded their bright hues. Their uncurled
ringlets hung dangling down their cheeks, whose roses were heightened to
an unbecoming crimson, or withered to a sickly pallor; their gossamer
drapery, deprived of its delicate stiffening, flapped like the loose
sails of a vessel wet by the spray. Here and there was a blooming
maiden, still as fair and cool as if sprinkled with dew, round whom the
atmosphere seemed refreshed as by the sparkling of a _jet d'eau_. These,
like myself, were novices, who had brought with them the dewy innocence
of life's morning hours; but they had not, like me, heard the hissing of
the adder among their roses.
"Be calm,--be courageous," said Ernest, in a scarcely audible tone, as
bending down he gave the fan into my hand; "the arrow rebounds from an
impenetrable surface."
As we turned to leave the church, I felt my hand drawn round the arm of
Richard Clyde. How he had cleft the living mass so quickly I could not
tell; but he had made his way where an arrow could hardly penetrate. I
looked round for Edith,--but Ernest watched over her, like an earthly
providence. My backward glance to her prevented my seeing the faces of
those who were seated behind me. But what mattered it? They were
strangers, and heaven grant that they would ever remain so.
"Are you entirely recovered?" asked Richard, in an anxious tone. "I
never saw any one's countenance change so instantaneously as yours. You
were as white as your cambric handkerchief. You are not accustomed to
such stifling crowds, where we seem plunged in an exhausted receiver."
"I never wish to be in such another," I answered, with emphasis. "I
never care to leave home again."
"I am sorry your first impressions should have been so
disagreeable,--but I hope you have been interested in some small degree.
You do not know what inspiration there was in your presence. At first, I
thought I would rather be shot from the cannon's mouth than speak in
your hearing; but after the first shock, you were like a fountain of
living waters playing on my soul."
Poor Richard! how could I tell him that I had not heard understandingly
one sentence that he uttered? or how could I explain the cause of my
mental distraction? He had cast his pearls to the wind; his diamonds to
the sand.
Mrs. Linwood was a guest of the president, who was an intimate and
valued friend. I would have given worlds for a little solitary nook,
where I could hide myself from every eye; for a seat beneath the wild
oaks that girdled the cottage of my childhood; but the house was
thronged with the literati of the State, and wherever I turned I met the
gaze of strangers. If I could have seen Mrs. Linwood alone, or Edith
alone, and told them how wantonly, how cruelly my feelings had been
wounded, it would have relieved the fulness, the oppression of my heart.
But that was impossible. Mrs. Linwood's commanding social position, her
uncommon and varied powers of conversation, the excellence and dignity
of her character, made her the cynosure of the literary circle. Edith,
too, from her exquisite loveliness, the sweetness of her disposition,
and her personal misfortune, which endeared her to her friends by the
tenderness and sympathy it excited, was a universal favorite; and all
these attractive qualities in both were gilded and enhanced by the
wealth which enabled them to impart, even more than they received. They
were at home here,--they were in the midst of friends, whose society was
congenial to their tastes, and I resolved, whatever I might suffer, not
to mar their enjoyment by my selfish griefs. Ernest had heard
all,--perhaps he believed all. He did not know my mother. He had never
seen that face of heavenly purity and holy sorrow. Why should he not
believe?
One thing I could do. I could excuse myself from dinner and thus secure
an hour's quietude. I gave no false plea, when I urged a violent
headache as the reason for my seclusion. My temples ached and throbbed
as if trying to burst from a metallic band, and the sun rays, though
sifted through curtains of folding lace, fell like needle points on my
shrinking eyes.
"Poor Gabriella!" said Edith, laying her cool soft hand on my hot brow,
"I did not think you were such a tender, green-house plant. I cannot
bear to leave you here, when you could enjoy such an intellectual
banquet below. Let me stay with you. I fear you are really very ill. How
unfortunate!"
"No, no, dear Edith; you must not think of such a thing. Just close
those blinds, and give me that fan, and I shall be very comfortable
here. If possible let no one come in. If I could sleep, this paroxysm
will pass over."
"There, sleep if you can, dear Gabriella, and be bright for the evening
party. You knew the dresses mamma gave us for the occasion, both alike.
I could not think of wearing mine, unless you were with me,--and you
look so charmingly in white!"
Edith had such a sweet, coaxing way with her, she magnetized pain and
subdued self-distrust. The mere touch of her gentle hand had allayed the
fever of my brain, and one glance of her loving blue eye tempered the
anguish of my spirit. She lingered, unwilling to leave me,--drew the
blinds together, making a soft twilight amid the glare of day, saturated
my handkerchief with cologne and laid it on my temples, and placing a
beautiful bouquet of flowers, an offering to herself, on my pillow,
kissed me, and left me.
I watched the sound of her retreating footsteps, or rather of her
crutches, till they were no longer heard; then burying my face in my
pillow, the sultry anguish of my heart was drenched in tears. Oh! what a
relieving shower! It was the thunder-shower of the tropics, not the
slow, drizzling rain of colder climes. I wept till the pillow was as wet
as the turf on which the heavens have been weeping. I clasped it to my
bosom as a shield against invisible foes, but there was no _sympathy_ in
its downy softness. I sighed for a pillow beneath whose gentle heavings
the heart of human kindness beats, I yearned to lay my head on a
mother's breast. Yea, cold and breathless as it was now, beneath the
clods of the valley, it would still be a sacred resting-place to me. The
long pressure of the grave-sods could not crush out the impression of
that love, stronger than death, deeper than the grave.
Had the time arrived when I might claim the manuscript, left as a
hallowed legacy to the orphan, who had no other inheritance? Had I
awakened to the knowledge of woman's destiny to love and suffer? Dare I
ask myself this question? Through the morning twilight of my heart, was
not a star trembling, whose silver rays would never be quenched, save in
the nightshades of death? Was it not time to listen to the warning
voice, whose accents, echoing from the tomb, must have the power and
grandeur of prophecy? Yes! I would ask Mrs. Linwood for my mother's
history, as soon as we returned to Grandison Place; and if I found the
shadow of disgrace rested on the memory of her I so loved and
worshipped, I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, to avoid
that searching eye, which, next to the glance of Omnipotence, I would
shun in guilt and shame.
"They say!" Who are _they_? who are the cowled monks, the hooded friars
who glide with shrouded faces in the procession of life, muttering in an
unknown tongue words of mysterious import? Who are _they_? the midnight
assassins of reputation, who lurk in the by-lanes of society, with
dagger tongues sharpened by invention and envenomed by malice, to draw
the blood of innocence, and, hyena-like, banquet on the dead? Who are
_they_? They are a multitude no man can number, black-stoled familiars
of the inquisition of slander, searching for victims in every city,
town, and village, wherever the heart of humanity throbs, or the ashes
of mortality find rest.
Oh, coward, coward world--skulkers! Give me the bold brigand, who
thunders along the highways with flashing weapon that cuts the sunbeams
as well as the shades. Give me the pirate, who _unfurls_ the black flag,
emblem of his terrible trade, and _shows_ the plank which your doomed
feet must tread; but save me from the _they-sayers_ of society, whose
knives are hidden in a velvet sheath, whose bridge of death, is woven of
flowers; and who spread, with invisible poison, even the spotless
whiteness of the winding-sheet.