I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did
not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was
sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the
depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed
myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something
dejected in his attitude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned
his forehead against the window sash.
I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked.
He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of
his shoulder, and knew that he heard me.
"What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will
you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?"
"I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry,
but grieved, wounded, and unhappy."
"And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in
sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?"
"Gabriella, you mock me!" he exclaimed, suddenly rising and speaking in
a low, stern voice. "You know that you are yourself the cause of my
grief, and your words are as hollow as your actions are vain. Did you
not promise, solemnly promise never to deceive me again, after having
caused me such agony by the deception I yet freely forgave?"
"Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived? If I know myself, every word
and action has been as clear and open as noonday."
"Did you ever tell me your teacher was your lover,--he with whom you
were so intimately associated when I first knew you? You suffered me to
believe that he was to you in the relation almost of a father. I
received him as such in my own home. I lavished upon him every
hospitable attention, as the friend and guide of your youth, and now you
suffer me to hear from others that his romantic love was the theme of
village gossip, that your names are still associated by idle tongues."
"I always believed before that unrequited love was not a theme for vain
boasting, that it was a secret too sacred to be divulged even to the
dearest and the nearest."
"But every one who has been so unfortunate as to be associated with you,
seems to have been the victims of unrequited love. The name of Richard
Clyde is familiar to all as the model of despairing lovers, and even Dr.
Harlowe addresses you in a strain of unpardonable levity."
"O Ernest, cannot you spare even him?"
"You asked me the cause of my displeasure, and I have told you the
source of my grief, otherwise I had been silent. There must be something
wrong, Gabriella, or you would not be the subject of such remarks.
Edith, all lovely as she is, passes on without exciting them. The most
distant allusion to a lover should be considered an insult by a wedded
woman and most especially in her husband's presence."
"I have never sought admiration or love," said I, every feeling of
delicacy and pride rising to repel an insinuation so unjust. "When they
have been mine, they were spontaneous gifts, offered nobly, and if not
accepted, at least declined with gratitude and sensibility. If I have
been so unfortunate as to win what your lovely sister might more justly
claim, it has been by the exercise of no base allurement or meritricious
attractions. I appeal to your own experience, and if it does not acquit
me, I am for ever silent."
Coldly and proudly my eye met his, as we stood face to face in the light
of the midnight moon. I, who had looked up to him with the reverence due
to a superior being, felt that I was above him now. He was the slave of
an unjust passion, the dupe of a distempered fancy, and as such unworthy
of my respect and love. As I admitted this truth, I shuddered with that
vague horror we feel in dreams, when we recoil from the brink of
something, we know not what. I trembled when his lips opened, fearful he
would say something more irrational and unmanly still.
"O Ernest!" I cried, all at once yielding to the emotions that were
bearing me down with such irresistible power, "you frighten me, you fill
me with unspeakable dread. There seems a deep abyss yawning between us,
and I stand upon one icy brink and you on the other, and the chasm
widens, and I stretch out my arms in vain to reach you, and I call, and
nothing but a dreary echo answers, and I look into my heart and do not
find you there. Save me, Ernest, save me,--my husband, save yourself
from a doom so dreadful!"
Excited by the awful picture of desolation I had drawn, I slid down upon
my knees and raised my clasped hands, as if pleading for life beneath
the axe of the executioner. I must have been the very personification of
despair, with my hair wildly sweeping round me, and hands locked in
agony.
"To live on, live on together, year after year, cold and estranged,
without love, without hope,"--I continued, unable to check the words
that came now as in a rushing tide,--"Oh! is it not dreadful, Ernest,
even to think of? There is no evil I could not bear while we loved one
another. If poverty came,--welcome, welcome. I could toil and smile, if
I only toiled for you, if I were only _trusted_, only _believed_. There
is no sacrifice I would not make to prove my faith. Do you demand my
right hand?--cut it off; my right eye?--pluck it out;--I withhold
nothing. I would even lay my heart bleeding at your feet in attestation
of my truth. But what can I do, when the idle breath of others, over
which I have no power, shakes the tottering fabric of your confidence,
and I am buried beneath the ruins?"
"You have never loved like me, Gabriella, or you would never dream of
the possibility of its being extinguished," said he, in a tone of
indescribable wretchedness. "I may alienate you from me, by the
indulgence of insane passions, by accusations repented as soon as
uttered,--I may revile and persecute,--but I can never cease to love
you."
"O Ernest!" It was all gone,--pride, anger, despair, were gone. The
first glance of returning love,--the first acknowledgment of uttered
wrong, were enough for me. I was in his arms, next to his heart, and the
last hours seemed a dream of darkness. I was happy again; but I trembled
even in the joy of reconciliation. I realized on what a slender thread
my wedded happiness was hanging, and knew that it must one day break.
Moments like these were like those green and glowing spots found on the
volcano's burning edge. The lava of passion might sweep over them quick
as the lightning's flash, and beauty and bloom be covered with ashes and
desolation.
And so the cloud passed by,--and Ernest was, if possible, more tender
and devoted, and I tried to cast off the prophetic sadness that would at
times steal over the brightness of the future. I was literally giving up
all for him. I no longer derived pleasure from the society of Mr.
Regulus. I dreaded the sportive sallies of Dr. Harlowe. I looked forward
with terror to the return of Richard Clyde. I grew nervous and restless.
The color would come and go in my face, like the flashes of the aurora
borealis, and my heart would palpitate suddenly and painfully, as if
some unknown evil were impending. Did I now say, as I did a few months
after my marriage, that I preferred the stormy elements in which I
moved, to the usual calm of domestic life? Did I exult, as the billows
swelled beneath me and bore me up on their foaming crests, in the power
of raising the whirlwind and the tempest? No; I sighed for rest,--for
still waters and tranquil skies.
It is strange, that a subject which has entirely escaped the mind, when
associations naturally recall it, will sometimes return and haunt it,
when nothing seems favorable for its reception.
During my agitated interview with my unhappy father, I had forgotten
Therésa La Fontaine, and the boy whose birthright I had unconsciously
usurped. Mr. Brahan, in speaking of St. James and his _two_ wives, said
they had both disappeared in a mysterious manner. That boy, if living,
was my brother, my half-brother, the legitimate inheritor of my name,--a
name, alas! he might well blush to bear. _If living_, where was he, and
who was he? Was he the heir of his father's vices, and was he conscious
of his ignominious career? These questions constantly recurred, now
there was no oracle near to answer. Once, and only once, I mentioned
them to Mrs. Linwood.
"You had better not attempt to lift the veil which covers the past," she
answered, in her most decided manner. "Think of the suffering, not to
say disgrace, attached to the discovery of your father,--and let this
brother be to you as though he had never been. Tempt not Providence, by
indulging one wish on the subject, which might lead to shame and sorrow.
Ernest has acted magnanimously with regard to the circumstances, which
must have been galling beyond expression to one of his proud and
sensitive nature. And I, Gabriella,--though out of delicacy to you,--I
have forborne any allusion to the events of the last winter, have
suffered most deeply and acutely on their account. I have suffered for
myself, as well as my son. If there is any thing in this world to be
prized next to a blameless conscience, it is an unspotted name. Well is
it for you, that your own is covered with one, which from generation to
generation has been pure and honorable. Well is it for you, that your
husband's love is stronger than his pride, or he might reproach you for
a father's ignominy. Remember this, when you feel that you have wrongs
to forgive. And as you value your own happiness and ours, never, my
child, seek to discover a brother, whom you would probably blush to
acknowledge, and my son be compelled to disown."
She spoke with dignity and emphasis, while the pride of a virtuous and
honored ancestry, though subdued by Christian grace, darkened her eyes
and glowed on her usually colorless cheek. I realized then all her
forbearance and delicacy. I understood what a deep wound her family
pride must have received, and how bitterly she must have regretted a
union, which exposed her son to contact with degradation and crime.
"I would not have spoken as I have, my daughter," she added, in a
softened tone, "but with your limited knowledge of the world, you cannot
understand the importance attached to unblemished associations. And
never mention the subject to Ernest, if you would not revive memories
that had better slumber for ever."
She immediately resumed her kind and gracious manner, but I never forgot
the lesson she had given. My proud spirit needed no second warning.
Never had I felt so crushed, so humiliated by the remembrance of my
father's crimes. That he _was_ my father I had never dared to doubt.
Even Ernest relinquished the hope he had cherished, as time passed on,
and no letter from Mr. Brahan threw any new light on the dark
relationship; though removed from the vicinity of the dismal Tombs, the
dark, gigantic walls cast their lengthening shadow over the fresh green
fields and blossoming meadows, and dimmed the glory of the landscape.
The shadow of the Tombs met the shadow in my heart, and together they
produced a chill atmosphere. I sighed for that perfect love which
casteth out fear; that free, joyous intercourse of thought and feeling,
born of undoubting confidence.
Could I live over again the first year of my wedded life, with the
experience that now enlightens me, I would pursue a very different
course of action. A passion so wild and strong as that which darkened my
domestic happiness, should be resisted with the energy of reason,
instead of being indulged with the weakness of fear. Every sacrifice
made to appease its violence only paved the way for a greater. Every act
of my life had reference to this one master-passion. I scarcely ever
spoke without watching the countenance of Ernest to see the effect of my
words. If it was overcast or saddened, I feared I had given utterance to
an improper sentiment, and then I blushed in silence. Very unfortunate
was it for him, that I thus fed and strengthened the serpent that should
have been strangled in the cradle of our love; and his mother
unconsciously did the same. She believed him afflicted by a hereditary
malady which should inspire pity, and be treated with gentleness rather
than resistance. Edith, too,--if a cloud passed over his brow, she
exerted every winning and endearing sisterly art to chase the gloom.
The history of man for six thousand years shows, that in the exercise of
unlimited power he becomes a despot. Kingly annals confirm the truth of
this, and domestic records proclaim it with a thundering tongue. There
must be a restraining influence on human passion, or its turbulent waves
swell higher and higher, till they sweep over the landmarks of reason,
honor and love. The mighty hand of God is alone powerful enough to curb
the raging billows. He alone can say, "peace, be still." But he has
ministers on earth appointed to do his pleasure, and if they fulfil
their task He may not be compelled to reveal himself in flaming fire as
the God of retributive justice.
I know that Ernest loved me, with all his heart, soul, and strength; but
mingled with this deep, strong love, there was the alloy of
selfishness,--the iron of a despotic will. There was the jealousy of
power, as well as the jealousy of love, unconsciously exercised and
acquiring by indulgence a growing strength.
My happiness was the first desire of his heart, the first aim of his
life; but I must be made happy in _his_ way, and by his means. His hand,
fair, soft, and delicate as a woman's,--that hand, with its gentle,
warm, heart-thrilling pressure, was nevertheless the hand of Procrustes;
and though he covered the iron bed with the flowers of love, the spirit
sometimes writhed under the coercion it endured.
"You are not well," said Dr. Harlowe, as we met him during an evening
walk. "I do not like that fluctuating color, or that quick, irregular
breathing."
Ernest started as if he had heard my death-warrant; and, taking my hand,
he began to count my quickly throbbing pulse.
"That will never do," said the doctor, smiling. "Her pulse will beat
three times as fast under your fingers as mine, if you have been married
nearly a year. It is not a good pulse. You had better take care of her."
"He takes a great deal too much care of me, doctor," I cried. "Do not
make him think I am an invalid, or he will make a complete hothouse
plant of me."
"Who ever saw an invalid with such a color as that?" asked Ernest.
"Too bright--too mutable," answered the doctor, shaking his head. "She
is right. You keep her too close. Let her run wild, like any other
country girl. Let her rise early and go out into the barnyard, see the
cows milked, inhale their odorous breathings, wander in the fields among
the new-mown hay, let her rake it into mounds and throw herself on the
fragrant heaps, as I have seen her do when a little school-girl. Let her
do just as she pleases, go where she pleases, stay as long as she
pleases, in the open air and free sunshine; and mark my words, she will
wear on her cheeks the steady bloom of the milkmaid, instead of the
flitting rosiness of the sunset cloud."
"I am not conscious of imposing so much restraint on her actions as your
words imply," said Ernest, a flush of displeasure passing over his pale
and anxious countenance.
"Make her take a ride on horseback every morning and evening," continued
Dr. Harlowe, with perfect coolness, without taking any notice of the
interruption. "Best exercise in the world. Fine rides for equestrians
through the green woods around here. If that does not set her right,
carry her to the roaring Falls of Niagara, or the snowy hills of New
Hampshire, or the Catskill Mountains, or the Blue Ridge. I cannot let
the flower of the village droop and fade."
As he finished the sentence, the merry tones of his voice became grave
and subdued. He spoke as one having the authority of science and
experience, as well as the privilege of affection. I looked down to hide
the moisture that glistened in my eyes.
"How would you like to travel as the doctor has suggested, Gabriella?"
asked Ernest, who seemed much moved by the doctor's remarks. "You know I
would go to"--
"Nova Zembla, if she wished it," interrupted the doctor, "but that is
too far and too cold. Begin with a shorter journey. I wish I could
accompany you, but I cannot plead as an excuse my wife's delicacy of
constitution. Her health is as uniform as her temper; and even if life
and death were at stake, she would not leave her housekeeping in other
hands. Neither would she close her doors and turn her locks, lest moth
and rust should corrupt, and thieves break in and steal. But pardon me.
I have given you no opportunity to answer your husband's question."
"I shall only feel too happy to avail myself of his unnecessary fears
with regard to my health," I answered. "It will be a charming way of
passing the summer, if Mrs. Linwood and Edith will consent."
Dr. Harlowe accompanied us home, and nothing was talked of but the
intended journey. The solicitude of Ernest was painfully roused, and he
seemed ready to move heaven and earth to facilitate our departure.
"I am sorry to close Grandison Place in the summer season," said Mrs.
Linwood; "it looks so inhospitable. Besides, I have many friends who
anticipate passing the sultry season here."
"Let them travel with you, if they wish," said the doctor bluntly. "That
is no reason why you should stay at home."
"Poor Madge!" cried Edith, who was delighted with the arrangement the
doctor had suggested. "She will be so disappointed."
"Let her come," said Dr. Harlowe. "I will take charge of the wild-cat,
and if I find her too mighty for me, I will get Mr. Regulus to assist me
in keeping her in order. Let her come, by all means."
"Supposing we write and ask her to accompany us," said Mrs. Linwood.
"Her exuberant spirits will be subdued by the exercise of travelling,
and she may prove a most exhilarating companion."
"What, four ladies to one gentleman!" exclaimed Edith. "Poor Ernest!
when he will have thoughts and eyes but for one!"
"I would sooner travel with the Falls of Niagara, or the boiling springs
of Geyser," cried Ernest, with an instinctive shudder. "We should have
to take a carpenter, a glazier, an upholsterer, and a seamstress, to
repair the ruins she would strew in our path."
"If Richard Clyde were about to return a little earlier in the season,"
said the doctor, looking at Edith, "he would be a delightful acquisition
to your party. He would divide with your brother the heavy
responsibility of being the guardian of so many household treasures."
"Let us start as early as possible," exclaimed Ernest. The name of
Richard Clyde was to his impatient, jealous spirit, as is the rowel to
the fiery steed.
"And what will become of all our beautiful flowers, and our rich,
ripening fruit?" I asked. "Must they waste their sweetness and value on
the unappreciating air?"
"I think we must make Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Regulus the guardians and
participators of both," said Mrs. Linwood.
"Give him the flowers, and leave the fruit to me," cried Dr. Harlowe,
emphatically.
"That the sick, the poor, and the afflicted may be benefited by the
act," replied Mrs. Linwood. "Let it be so, Doctor,--and may many a
blessing which has once been mine, reward your just and generous
distribution of the abounding riches of Grandison Place."
I left one sacred charge with the preceptor of my childhood.
"Let not the flowers and shrubbery around my mother's grave, and the
grave of Peggy, wilt and die for want of care."
"They shall not. They shall be tenderly and carefully nurtured."
"And if Margaret comes during our absence, be kind and attentive to her,
for my sake, Mr. Regulus."
"I will! I will! and for her own too. The wild girl has a heart, I
believe she has; a good and honest heart."
"You discovered it during your homeward journey from New York. I thought
you would," said I, pleased to see a flush light up the student's olive
cheek. I thought of the sensible Benedict and the wild Beatrice, and the
drama of other lives passed before the eye of imagination.
Gloomy must the walls of Grandison Place appear during the absence of
its inmates,--that city set upon a hill that could not be hid, whose
illuminated windows glittered on the vale below with beacon splendor,
and discoursed of genial hospitality and kindly charity to the
surrounding shadows. Sadly must the evening gale sigh through the noble
oaks, whose branches met over the winding avenue, and lonely the
elm-tree wave its hundred arms above the unoccupied seat,--that seat,
beneath whose breezy shade I had first beheld the pale, impassioned, and
haunting face of Ernest Linwood.