Edith came in, as usual, before she retired for the night, and expressed
affectionate concern for my indisposition; but there was an air of
constraint, which I could not help perceiving. My eyes fell before hers,
with conscious guilt. For had I not robbed her of that first place in
her brother's heart, which she had so long claimed as her inalienable
right?
I had one duty to perform, and I resolved to do it before I laid my head
on the pillow. With the manuscript in my hand, I sought the chamber of
Mrs. Linwood. She sat before a small table, her head resting
thoughtfully on her hand, with an open Bible before her. She looked up
at my entrance, with a countenance of gentle seriousness, and extended
her hand affectionately.
Walking hastily towards her, I knelt at her feet, and laying the
manuscript in her lap, burst into tears.
"Oh! Mrs. Linwood," I cried, "will your love and kindness survive the
knowledge of all these pages will reveal? Will a mother's virtues cancel
the record of a father's guilt? Can you cherish and protect me still?"
She bent over me and took me in her arms, while tears trembled in her
eyes.
"I know all, my dear child," she said; "there is nothing new to be
revealed. Your mother gave me, on her death-bed, a brief history of her
life, and it only increased your claims on my maternal care. Do you
think it possible, Gabriella, that I could be so unjust and unkind, as
to visit the sins of a father on the head of an innocent and unoffending
child? No; believe me, nothing but your own conduct could ever alienate
my affections or confidence."
"Teach me to deserve it, dear Mrs. Linwood,--teach me how to prove my
love, my gratitude, and veneration."
"By confiding in me as a mother, trusting me as a friend, and seeking me
as a guide and counsellor in this most dangerous season of youth and
temptation, you are very dear to me, Gabriella. Next to my own son and
daughter, I love you, nor do I consider their happiness a more sacred
deposit than yours."
"Oh! Mrs. Linwood," I exclaimed, covering my burning face with my hands,
and again bowing it on her lap--"Ask me anything,--and nothing shall be
held back--I cannot--I dare not--perhaps I ought not--"
"Tell me that my son loves you?"
I started and trembled; but as soon as the words passed her lips I
gathered courage to meet whatever she might say.
"If it be indeed so," I answered, "should not the revelation come from
him, rather than me?"
"There needs no formal declaration. I have seen it, known it, even
before yourselves were conscious of its existence--this all engrossing
passion. Before my son's return I foresaw it, with the prescience of
maternal love. I knew your young, imaginative heart would find its ideal
in him, and that his fastidious taste and sensitive, reserved nature
would be charmed by your simplicity, freshness, and genius. I knew it,
and yet I could not warn you. For when did youth ever believe the
cautions of age, or passion listen to the voice of truth?"
"Warn _me_, madam? Oh, you mean him, not _me_. I never had the
presumption to think myself his equal; never sought, never aspired to
his love. You believe me, Mrs. Linwood--tell me, you believe me in
this?"
"I do, Gabriella. Your heart opened as involuntarily and as inevitably
to receive him, as the flower unfolds itself to the noonday sun. It is
your destiny; but would to God I could oppose it, that I could
substitute for you a happier, if less brilliant lot."
"A happier lot than to be the wife of Ernest? Oh! Mrs. Linwood, Heaven
offers nothing to the eye of faith more blissful, more divine."
"Alas! my child, such is always the dream of love like yours, and from
such dreams there must be a day of awakening. God never intended their
realization in this world. You look up to me with wondering and
reproachful glance. You have feared me, Gabriella, feared that I would
oppose my son's choice, if it rested on one so lowly as you believe
yourself. You are mistaken--I have no right to dictate to him. He is
more than of age, has an independent fortune and an independent will.
The husband lifts his wife to his own position in society, and his name
annihilates hers. The knowledge of your father's character gives me
pain, and the possibility of his ever claiming you as his child is a
source of deep inquietude,--but it is chiefly for you I tremble, for you
I suffer, my beloved Gabriella."
I looked up in consternation and alarm. What invisible sword hung
trembling over the future?
"Ernest," she began, then stopping, she raised me from my kneeling
attitude, led me to a sofa, and made me seat myself at her side.
"Ernest," she continued, holding my hand tenderly in hers, "has many
noble and attractive qualities. He is just, generous, and honorable; he
is upright, honest, and true; the shadow of deceit never passed over his
soul, the stain of a mean action never rested on his conduct. But,"--and
her hand involuntarily tightened around mine,--"he has qualities fatal
to the peace of those who love him,--fatal to his own happiness;
suspicion haunts him like a dark shadow,--jealousy, like a serpent, lies
coiled in his heart."
"He has told me all this," I cried, with a sigh of relief,--"but I fear
not,--my confidence shall be so entire, there shall be no room for
suspicion,--my love so perfect it shall cast out jealousy."
"So I once thought and reasoned in all the glow of youthful enthusiasm,
but experience came with its icy touch, and enthusiasm, hope, joy, and
love itself faded and died. The dark passions of Ernest are
hereditary,--they belong to the blood that flows in his veins,--they are
part and lot of his existence,--they are the phantoms that haunted his
father's path, and cast their chill shadows over the brief years of my
married life. The remembrance of what I have suffered myself, makes me
tremble for her who places her happiness in my son's keeping. A woman
cannot be happy unless she is trusted."
"Not if she is beloved!" I exclaimed. "It seems to me that love should
cover every fault, and jealousy be pardoned without an effort, since it
is a proof of the strength and fervor of one's affection. Let me be
loved,--I ask no more."
"You love my son, Gabriella?"
"Love him!" I repeated,--"oh that you could look into my heart!"
Blushing at the fervor of my manner, I turned my crimson face from her
gaze. Then I remembered that he knew not yet what might place an
insurmountable barrier between us, and I entreated Mrs. Linwood to tell
him what I wanted courage to relate.
"I will, my child, but it will make no difference with him. His high,
chivalrous sense of honor will make the circumstances of your birth but
a new claim on his protection,--and his purposes are as immovable as his
passions are strong. But let us talk no more to-night. It is late, and
you need rest. We will renew the subject when you are more composed--I
might say both. I could not give you a greater proof of my interest in
your happiness, than the allusion I have made to my past life. Never
before have I lifted the curtain from errors which death has sanctified.
Let the confidence be sacred. Ernest and Edith must never know that a
shadow rested on their father's virtues. Nothing but the hope of saving
you from the sufferings which once were mine, could have induced me to
rend the veil from the temple of my heart."
"How solemn, how chilling are your words," said I, feeling very faint
and sad. "I wish I had not heard them. Do joy and sorrow always thus go
hand in hand? In the last few hours I have known the two great extremes
of life. I have been plunged into the depths of despair and raised to
the summit of hope. I am dizzy and weak by the sudden transition. I will
retire, dear madam, for my head feels strangely bewildered."
Mrs. Linwood embraced me with unusual tenderness, kissed me on both
cheeks, and accompanied me to the door with a fervent "God bless you!"