The very evening after our return, while Dr. Harlowe was giving an
account of his stewardship, and congratulating Edith and myself on the
bloom and animation we had acquired, a gentleman was announced, and
Richard Clyde entered. The heart-felt, joyous welcome due to the friend
who is just returned from a foreign land, greeted his entrance. Had I
known of his coming, I might have repressed the pleasure that now
spontaneously rose; but I forgot every thing at this moment, but the
companion of my childhood, the sympathizing mourner by my mother's
grave, the unrequited lover, but the true and constant friend. He was so
much improved in person and manners; he was so self-possessed, so manly,
so frank, so cordial! He came among us like a burst of sunshine; and we
all--all but _one_--felt his genial influence. He came into the family
like a long absent son and brother. Why could not Ernest have welcomed
him as such? Why did he repel with coldness and suspicion the honest,
ingenuous heart that longed to meet his with fraternal warmth and
confidence? I could not help drawing comparisons unfavorable to Ernest.
He, who had travelled through the same regions, who had drank of the
same inspiring streams of knowledge as the young student, who came fresh
and buoyant from the classic halls where he had himself gained honor and
distinction,--he, sat cold and reserved, while Richard dispensed life
and brightness on all around.
"Oh, how much this is like home!" he exclaimed, when the lateness of the
hour compelled him to depart; "how happy, how grateful I am, to meet so
kind, so dear a welcome. It warmed my heart, in anticipation, beyond the
Atlantic waves. I remembered the maternal kindness that cheered and
sustained me in my collegiate probation, and blessed my dawning manhood.
I remembered Edith's heavenly music, and Gabriella's."
He had become so excited by the recollections he was clothing in words,
that he lost the command of his voice as soon as he mentioned my name.
Perhaps the associations connected with it were more powerful than he
imagined; but whatever was the cause he stopped abruptly, bowed, and
left the room.
Mrs. Linwood followed him into the passage, and I heard her telling him
that he must consider Grandison Place his home indeed, for she felt that
she had welcomed back another beloved son. She was evidently hurt by the
chilling reserve of Ernest's manners, and wished to make up for it by
the cordial warmth of her own.
"There goes as fine a youth as ever quickened the pulses of a maiden's
heart," said Dr. Harlowe, as Richard's quick steps were heard on the
gravel walk; "I am proud of him, we all ought to be proud of him. He is
a whole-souled, whole-hearted, right-minded young man, worth a dozen of
your fashionable milk-sops. He is a right down splendid fellow. I cannot
imagine why this sly little puss was so blind to his merits; but I
suppose the greater glory dimmed the less."
Good, excellent Dr. Harlowe! Why was he always saying something to rouse
the slumbering serpent in the bosom of Ernest? Slumbering, did I say?
Alas! it was already awakened, and watching for its prey. The doctor had
the simplicity of a child, but the shrewdness of a man. Had he dreamed
of the suffering Ernest's unfortunate temperament caused, he would have
blistered his tongue sooner than have given me a moment's pain. He
suspected him of jealousy, of the folly, not the madness of jealousy,
and mischievously liked to sport with a weakness which he supposed
evaporated with the cloud of the brow, or vanished in the lightning of
the eye. He little imagined the stormy gust that swept over us after his
departure.
"Mother!" exclaimed Ernest, as soon as the doctor had closed the door,
in a tone which I had never heard him use to her before, "I will no
longer tolerate that man's impertinence and presumption. He never comes
here that he does not utter insulting words, which no gentleman should
allow in his own house. It is not the first, nor the second, nor the
third time that he has insulted me through my wife. His superior age,
and your profound respect for him, shall no longer prevent the
expression of my indignation. I shall let him know on what terms he ever
again darkens this threshold."
"Ernest!" cried his mother, with a look in which indignation and grief
struggled for mastery, "do you forget that it is your mother whom you
are addressing?--that it is her threshold not yours on which you have
laid this withering ban?"
"Had not Dr. Harlowe been your friend, and this house yours, I should
have told him my sentiments long since; but while I would not forget my
respect as a son, I must remember my dignity as a husband, and I will
allow no man to treat my wife with the familiarity he uses, polluting
her wedded ears with allusions to her despairing lovers, and endeavoring
indirectly to alienate her affections from me."
"Stop, Ernest, you are beside yourself," said Mrs. Linwood, and the
mounting color in her face deepened to crimson,--"you shall not thus
asperse a good and guileless man. Your insane passion drives you from
reason, from honor, and from right. It dwarfs the fair proportions of
your mind, and deforms its moral beauty. I have been wrong, sinful,
weak, in yielding to your infirmity, and trying by every gentle and
persuasive means to lead you into the green pastures and by the still
waters of domestic peace. I have counselled Gabriella, when I have seen
her young heart breaking under the weight of your suspicions, to bow
meekly and let the storm pass over her. But I do so no more. I will tell
her to stand firm and undaunted, and breast the tempest. I will stand by
her side, and support her in my arms, and shield her with my breast.
Come, Gabriella, come, my child; if my son _will_ be unjust, _will_ be
insane, I will at least protect you from the consequences of his guilty
rashness."
I sprang into her arms that opened to enfold me, and hid my face on her
breast. I could not bear to look upon the humiliation of Ernest, who
stood like one transfixed by his mother's rebuking glance. I trembled
like an aspen, there was something so fearful in the roused indignation
of one usually so calm and self-possessed. Edith sunk upon a seat in a
passion of tears, and "oh, brother!--oh, mother!" burst through
thick-coming sobs from her quivering lips.
"Mother!" exclaimed Ernest,--and his voice sounded hollow and
unnatural,--"I have reason to be angry,--I do not deserve this stern
rebuke,--you know not how much I have borne and forborne for your sake.
But if my mother teaches that rebellion to my will is a wife's duty, it
is time indeed that we should part."
"Oh, Ernest!" cried Edith; "oh, my brother! you will break my heart."
And rising, she seemed to fly to his side, and throwing her arms round
his neck, she lifted up her voice and wept aloud.
"Hush, my daughter, hush, Edith," said her mother. "I wish my son to
hear me, and if they were the last words I ever expected to utter, they
could not be more solemn. I have loved you, Ernest, with a love
bordering on idolatry,--with a pride most sinful in a Christian
parent,--but even the strength of a mother's love will yield at last
before the stormy passions that desolate her home. The spirit of the
Spartan mother, who told her son when he left her for the battle field,
'to return _with_ his shield, or _on_ it,' animates my bosom. I had far,
far rather weep over the grave of my son, than live to blush for his
degeneracy."
"And I would far rather be in my grave, this moment," he answered, in
the same hoarse, deep undertone, "than suffer the agonies of the last
few hours. Let me die,--let me die at once; then take this young man to
your bosom, where he has already supplanted me. Make him your son in a
twofold sense, for, by the heaven that hears me, I believe you would
bless the hour that gave him the right to Gabriella's love."
"Father, forgive him, he knows not what he utters," murmured his mother,
lifting her joined hands to heaven. I still clung to her in trembling
awe, forgetting my own sorrow in the depth and sacredness of hers.
"Ernest," she said, in a louder tone, "I cannot continue this painful
scene. I will go to my own chamber and pray for you; pray for your
release from the dominion of the powers of darkness. Oh, my son! I
tremble for you. You are standing on the brink of a terrible abyss. The
fiend that lurked in the bowers of Eden, and made its flowers dim with
the smoke of fraternal blood, is whispering in your ear. Beware, my son,
beware. Every sigh and tear caused by the indulgence of unhallowed
passion, cries as loud to Almighty God for vengeance as Abel's reeking
blood. Come, Gabriella, I leave him to reflection and prayer. I leave
him to God and his own soul. Come, Edith, leave him and follow me."
There was something so commanding in her accent and manner I dared not
resist her, though I longed to remain and whisper words of peace and
love to my unhappy husband. I knew that his soul must be crushed into
the dust, and my heart bled for his sufferings. Edith, too, withdrew her
clinging arms, for she dared not disobey her mother, and slowly and
sadly followed us up the winding stairs.
"Go to bed, my child," said she to Edith, when we reached the upper
platform. "May God in his mercy spare you from witnessing another scene
like this."
"Oh, mother! I never shall feel happy again. My poor brother! you did
not see him, mother, when you left him. You did not look upon him, or
you could not have left him. There was death on his face. Forgive him,
dear mother! take him back to your heart."
"And do you think he is not here?" she exclaimed, pressing her hands on
her heart, as if trying to sustain herself under an intense pain. "Do
you think he suffers alone? Do you think I have left him, but for his
good? Do you think I would not now gladly fold him in my arms and bathe
his soul in the overflowing tenderness of maternal love? O child, child!
Earth has no sounding line to fathom the depths of a mother's heart.
Good-night. God bless you, my darling Edith."
"And Gabriella?"
"Will remain with me."
Mrs. Linwood, whose left arm still encircled me, brought me into her
chamber, and closed the door. She was excessively pale, and I
mechanically gave her a glass of water. She thanked me; and seating
herself at a little table, on which an astral lamp was burning, she
began to turn the leaves of a Bible, which always lay there. I observed
that her hands trembled and that her lips quivered.
"There is but one fountain which can refresh the fainting spirit," she
said, laying her hand on the sacred volume. "It is the fountain of
living waters, which, whosoever will, may drink, and receive immortal
strength."
She turned the leaves, but there was mist over her vision,--she could
not distinguish the well-known characters.
"Read for me, my beloved Gabriella," said she, rising and motioning me
to the seat she had quitted. "I was looking for the sixty-second Psalm."
She seated herself in the shadow of the curtain, while I nerved myself
for the appointed task. My voice was at first low and tremulous, but as
the sound of the words reached my ear, they penetrated my soul, like a
strain of solemn music. I felt the divine influence of those breathings
of humanity, sanctified by the inspiration of the Deity. I felt the same
consciousness of man's insignificance as when I listened to Niagara's
eternal roar. And yet, if God cared for us, there was exaltation and
glory in the thought.
"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within
me? hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of
my countenance and my God."
"Go on," said Mrs. Linwood, as I paused on this beautiful and consoling
verse; "your voice is sweet, my child, and there is balm in every
hallowed word."
I turned to the ninety-first Psalm, which I had so often read to my own
dear mother, and which I had long known by heart; then the hundred and
sixteenth, which was a favorite of Ernest's. My voice faltered. I
thought of him in loneliness and anguish, and my tears blotted the
sacred lines. We both remained silent, for the awe of God's spirit was
upon us, and the atmosphere made holy by the incense of His breath.
A low, faint knock at the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Linwood, supposing
it a servant. She started, when the door opened, and Ernest, pale as a
ghost, stood on the threshold. I made a movement towards him, but he did
not look at me. His eyes were riveted on his mother, who had half risen
at his entrance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and
approaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, and bowed his
head in her lap.
"Mother," said he, in broken accents, "I come, like the returning
prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee, and am no more worthy
to be called thy son,--give me but the hireling's place, provided it be
near thy heart."
"And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my beloved, my only
one?" she cried, bending down and clasping her arms around him.
"Heavenly Father! I thank thee for this hour."
Never had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when the holy tears
of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks, and baptized their
spirits as in a regenerating shower. My own tears flowed in unison; but
I drew back, feeling as if it were sacrilege to intrude on such a scene.
My first impulse was to steal from the room, leaving them to the
unwitnessed indulgence of their sacred emotions; but I must pass them,
and I would not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against
them.
Mrs. Linwood was the first to recognize my presence; she raised her head
and beckoned me to approach. As I obeyed her motion, Ernest rose from
his knees, and taking my hand, held it for a moment closely, firmly in
his own; he did not embrace me, as he had always done in the transports
of reconciliation; he seemed to hold me from him in that controlling
grasp, and there was something thrilling, yet repelling, in the dark
depths of his eyes that held me bound to the spot where I stood.
"Remain with my mother, Gabriella," said he; "I give you back to her
guardianship, till I have done penance for the sins of this night. The
lips that have dared to speak to a mother, and such a mother, the words
of bitterness and passion, are unworthy to receive the pledge of love.
My eyes are opened to the enormity of my offence, and I abhor myself in
dust and ashes; my spirit shall clothe itself in garments of sackcloth
and mourning, and drink of the bitter cup of humiliation. Hear, then, my
solemn vow;--nay, my mother, nay, Gabriella,--I must, I will speak. My
Saviour fasted forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, he, who
knew not sin, and shall not I, vile as a malefactor, accursed as a
leper, do something to prove my penitence and self-abasement? For forty
days I abjure love, joy, domestic endearments, and social pleasures,--I
will live on bread and water,--I will sleep on the uncarpeted floor,--or
pass my nights under the canopy of heaven."
Pale and shuddering I listened to this wild, stem vow, fearing that his
reason was forsaking him. No martyr at the stake ever wore an expression
of more sublime self-sacrifice.
"Alas, my son!" exclaimed his mother, "one tear such as you have shed
this hour is worth a hundred rash vows. Vain and useless are they as the
iron bed, the girdle of steel, the scourge of the fanatic, who expects
to force by self-inflicted tortures the gates of heaven to open. Do you
realize to what sufferings you are dooming the hearts that love you, and
whose happiness is bound up in yours? Do you realize that you are making
our home dark and gloomy as the dungeons of the Inquisition?"
"Not so, my mother; Gabriella shall be free as air, free as before she
breathed her marriage vows. To your care I commit her. Let not one
thought of me cloud the sunshine of the domestic board, or wither one
garland of household joy. I have imposed this penance on myself in
expiation of my offences as a son and as a husband. If I am wrong, may a
merciful God forgive me. The words are uttered, and cannot be recalled.
I cannot add perjury to the dark list of my transgressions. Farewell,
mother; farewell, Gabriella; pray for me. Your prayers will call down
ministering angels, who shall come to me in the hour of nature's agony,
to relieve and sustain me."
He left us, closed the door, and passed down the stairs, which gave a
faint echo to his retreating footsteps. We looked at each other in grief
and amazement, and neither of us spoke for several minutes.
"My poor, misguided boy!" at length burst from his mother's pale lips,
"I fear I was too harsh,--I probed him too deeply,--I have driven him to
the verge of madness. Oh! how difficult it is to deal with a spirit so
strangely, so unhappily constituted! I have tried indulgence, and the
evil seemed to grow with alarming rapidity. I have exercised a parent's
authority, and behold the result. I can do nothing now, but obey his
parting injunction,--pray for him."
She folded her hands across her knees, and looked down in deep,
revolving thought.
Forty days of gloom and estrangement! Forty days! Oh! what a wilderness
would life be during those long, long days! And what was there beyond? I
dared not think. A dreary shadow of coming desolation,--like the cold,
gray mist which wrapped me as I stood on the rocks of Niagara, hung over
the future. Would I lift it if I could? Oh, no! Perish the hand that
would anticipate the day of God's revealing.