Ernest, faithful to his vow, slept on the floor in the library, and
though he sat down at the table with us, he tasted nothing but bread and
water. A stranger might not have observed any striking difference in his
manners, but he had forbidden himself even the glance of affection, and
his eye studiously and severely avoided mine. From the table he returned
to the library, and shut himself up till the next bell summoned us to
our now joyless and uncomfortable meals.
I cannot describe the tortures I endured during this season of unnatural
and horrible constraint. It sometimes seemed as if I should grow crazy;
and poor Edith was scarcely less unhappy. It was now that Mrs. Linwood
showed her extraordinary powers of self-control, her wisdom, and
intellectual strength. Calmly and serenely she fulfilled her usual
duties, as mistress of her household and benefactress of the village. To
visitors and friends she was the same hospitable and charming hostess
that had thrown such enchantment over the granite walls of Grandison
Place. She had marked out the line of duty for Edith and myself, which
we tried to follow, but it was often with sinking hearts and faltering
footsteps.
"If Ernest from a mistaken sense of duty has bound himself by a painful
and unnatural vow," said she, in that tone of grave sweetness which was
so irresistible, "_we_ must not forget the social and domestic duties of
life. A threefold responsibility rests upon us, for we must endeavor to
bear the burden he has laid down. He must not see the unlimited power he
has over our happiness, a power he is now unconsciously abusing. Smile,
my children, indulge in all innocent recreations; let me hear once more
your voices echoing on the lawn; let me hear the soothing notes of my
Edith's harp; let me see my Gabriella's fingers weaving as wont, sweet
garlands of flowers."
And now, the house began to be filled up with visitors from the city,
who had been anxiously waiting the return of Mrs. Linwood. The character
of Ernest for eccentricity and moodiness was so well known, that the
peculiar situation in which he had placed himself did not attract
immediate attention. But I knew I must appear, what I in reality was for
the time, a neglected and avoided wife; and most bitterly, keenly did I
suffer in consequence of this impression. In spite of the pain it had
caused, I was proud of Ernest's exclusive devotion, and the notice it
attracted. I knew I was, by the mortification I experienced, when that
devotion was withdrawn. It is true, I knew he was inflicting on himself
torments to which the fabled agonies of Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion
combined could not be compared; but others did not; they saw the averted
eye, the coldness, the distance, the estrangement, but they did not,
could not see, the bleeding heart, the agonized spirit hidden beneath
the veil.
I ought to mention here the reason that Mr. Regulus did not come as
usual to welcome us on our return. He had been appointed professor of
mathematics in ---- College, and had given up the charge of the academy
where he had taught so many years with such indefatigable industry and
distinguished success. He was now visiting in Boston, but immediately on
his return was to depart to the scene of his new labors.
Mr. Regulus, or, as we should now call him, Professor Regulus, had so
long been considered a fixture in town, this change in his destiny
created quite a sensation in the circle in which he moved. It seemed
impossible to do without him. He was as much a part of the academy as
the colossal pen, whose gilded feathers still swept the blue of ether.
Were it not for the blight that had fallen on my social joys, I should
have mourned the loss of this steadfast friend of my orphan years; but
now I could not regret it. The mildew of suspicion rested on our
intercourse, and all its pleasant bloom was blasted. He was in Boston.
Had he gone to ask the dauntless Meg to be the companion of his life, in
the more exalted sphere in which he was about to move? And would she
indeed suffer her "wild heart to be tamed by a loving hand?"
What delightful evenings we might now have enjoyed had not the dark
passion of Ernest thrown such a chilling shadow over the household!
Richard came almost every night, for it was his _home_. He loved and
reverenced Mrs. Linwood, as if she were his own mother. Edith was to him
as a sweet and gentle sister; and though never by word or action he
manifested a feeling for me which I might not sanction and return as the
wife of another, I knew, that no one had supplanted me in his
affections, that I was still the Gabriella whom he had enshrined in his
boyish heart,--in "all save hope the same." He saw that I was unhappy,
and he pitied me. The bright sparkle of his eye always seemed quenched
when it turned to me, and his voice when it addressed me had a gentler,
more subdued tone. But his spirit was so sparkling, so elastic, his
manners so kind and winning, his conversation so easy and graceful, it
was impossible for sadness or constraint to dwell long in his presence.
Did I never contrast his sunny temper, his unselfish disposition, his
happy, genial temperament, with the darkness and moodiness and despotism
of Ernest? Did I never sigh that I had not given my young heart to one
who would have trusted me even as he loved, and surrounded me with a
golden atmosphere of confidence, calm and beautiful as an unclouded
autumn sky? Did I not tremble at the thought of passing my whole life in
the midst of the tropic storms, the thunders and lightnings of passions?
And yet I loved Ernest with all the intensity of my first affection. I
would have sacrificed my life to have given peace to his troubled and
warring spirit. His self-imposed sufferings almost maddened me. My
heart, as it secretly clung to him and followed his lonely steps as,
faithful to his frantic vow, he withdrew from domestic and social
intercourse,--longed to express its emotions in words as wildly
impassioned as these:--
"Thou hast called me thine angel in moments of bliss,
Still thine angel I'll prove 'mid the horrors of this.
Through the furnace unshrinking thy steps I'll pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, and perish there too."
Oh, most beloved, yet most wretched and deluded husband, why was this
dark thread,--this cable cord, I might say,--twisted with the pure and
silvery virtues of thy character?
In the midst of this unhappy state of things, Margaret Melville arrived.
She returned with Mr. Regulus, who brought her one beautiful evening, at
the soft, twilight hour, to Grandison Place. Whether it was the subdued
light in which we first beheld her, or the presence of her dignified
companion, she certainly was much softened. Her boisterous laugh was
quite melodized, and her step did not make the crystal drops of the
girandoles tinkle as ominously as they formerly did. Still, it seemed as
if a dozen guests had arrived in her single person. There was such
superabundant vitality about her. As for Mr. Regulus, he was certainly
going on even unto perfection, for his improvement in the graces was as
progressive and as steady as the advance of the rolling year. I could
not but notice the extreme elegance of his dress. He was evidently "at
some cost to entertain himself."
"Come up stairs with me, darling," said she to me, catching my hand and
giving it an emphatic squeeze; "help me to lay aside this uncomfortable
riding dress,--besides," she whispered, "I have so much to tell you."
As we left the room and passed Mr. Regulus, who was standing near the
door, the glance she cast upon him, bright, smiling, triumphant, and
happy, convinced me that my conjectures were right.
"My dear creature!" she exclaimed, as soon as we were in my own chamber,
throwing herself down on the first seat she saw, and shaking her hair
loose over her shoulders, "I am so glad to see you. You do not know how
happy I am,--I mean how glad I am,--you did not expect me, did you?"
"I thought Mr. Regulus had gone to see you, but I did not know that he
would be fortunate enough to bring you back with him. He discovered last
winter, I have no doubt, what a pleasant travelling companion you were."
"Oh, Gabriella, I could tell you something so strange, so funny,"--and
here she burst into one of her old ringing laughs, that seemed perfectly
uncontrollable.
"I think I can guess what it is," I said, assisting her at her toilet,
which was never an elaborate business with her. "You and Mr. Regulus are
very good friends, perhaps betrothed lovers. Is that so very strange?"
"Who told you?" she exclaimed, turning quickly round, her cheeks
crimsoned and her eyes sparkling most luminously,--"who told you such
nonsense?"
"It does not require any supernatural knowledge to know this," I
answered. "I anticipated it when you were in New York, and most
sincerely do I congratulate you on the possession of so excellent and
noble a heart. Prize it, dear Margaret, and make yourself worthy of all
it can, of all it will impart, to ennoble and exalt your own."
"Ah! I fear I never shall be worthy of it," she cried, giving me an
enthusiastic embrace, and turning aside her head to hide a starting
tear; "but I do prize it, Gabriella, beyond all words."
"Ah, you little gypsy!" she exclaimed, suddenly resuming her old wild
manner, "why did you not prize it yourself? He has told me all about the
romantic scenes of the academy,--he says you transformed him from a
rough boor into a feeling, tender-hearted man,--that you stole into his
very inmost being, like the breath of heaven, and made the barren
wilderness blossom like the rose. Ah! you ought to hear how beautifully
he talks of you. But I am not jealous of you."
"Heaven forbid!" I involuntarily cried.
"You may well say that," said she, looking earnestly in my face; "you
may well say that, darling. But where is Ernest? I have not seen him
yet."
"He is in the library, I believe. He is not very well; and you know he
never enjoys company much."
"The same jealous, unreasonable being he ever was, I dare say," she
vehemently exclaimed. "It is a shame, and a sin, and a burning sin, for
him to go on as he does. Mr. Regulus says he could weep tears of blood
to think how you have sacrificed yourself to him."
"Margaret,--Margaret! If you have one spark of love for me,--one feeling
of respect and regard for Mrs. Linwood, your mother's friend and your
own, never, never speak of Ernest's peculiarities. I cannot deny them; I
cannot deny that they make me unhappy, and fill me with sad forebodings;
but he is my husband,--and I cannot hear him spoken of with bitterness.
He is my husband; and I love him in spite of his wayward humors, with
all the romance of girlish passion, and all the tenderness of wedded
love."
"Is love so strong as to endure every thing?" she asked.
"It is so divine as to forgive every thing," I answered.
"Well! you are an angel, and I will try to set a guard on these wild
lips, so that they shall not say aught to wound that dear, precious,
blessed little heart of yours. I will be just as good as I can be; and
if I forget myself once in a while, you must forgive me,--for the old
Adam is in me yet. There, how does that look?"
She had dressed herself in a plain white muslin, with a white sash
carelessly tied; and a light fall of lace was the only covering to her
magnificent arms and neck.
"Why, you look like a bride, Margaret," said I. "Surely, you must think
Mrs. Linwood is going to have a party to-night. Never mind,--we will all
admire you as much as if you were a bride. Let me twist some of these
white rosebuds in your hair, to complete the illusion."
I took some from the vase that stood upon my toilet, and wreathed them
in her black, shining locks. She clapped her hands joyously as she
surveyed her image in the mirror; then laughed long and merrily, and
asked if she did not look like a fool.
"Do you think there is any thing peculiar in my dress?" she suddenly
asked, pulling the lace rather strenuously, considering its gossamer
texture. "I do not wish to look ridiculous."
"No, indeed. It is like Edith's and mine. We always wear white muslin in
summer, you know; but you never seemed to care much about dressing here
in the country. I never saw you look so well, so handsome, Madge."
"Thank you. Let us go down. But, stop one moment. Do you think Mrs.
Linwood will think it strange that I should come here with Mr. Regulus?"
"No, indeed."
"What do you think she will say about our--our engagement?"
"She will be very much pleased. I heard her say that if you should
become attached to a man of worth and talents such as he possesses, you
would become a good and noble woman."
"Did she say that? Heaven bless her, body and soul. I wonder how she
could have any trust or faith in such a Greenland bear as I have been. I
will not say _am_, for I think I have improved some, don't you?"
"Yes! and I believe it is only the dawn of a beautiful day of
womanhood."
Margaret linked her arm in mine with a radiant smile and a vivid blush,
and tripped down stairs with a lightness almost miraculous. Mr. Regulus
was standing at the foot of the stairs leaning on the bannisters, in a
musing attitude. As soon as he saw us, his countenance lighted up with a
joyful animation, and he offered his arm to Margaret with eager
gallantry. I wondered I had not discovered before how very good looking
he was. Never, till he visited us in New York, had I thought of him but
as an awkward, rather homely gentleman. Now his smile was quite
beautiful, and as I accompanied them into the drawing-room, I thought
they were quite a splendid-looking pair. Mrs. Linwood was in the front
room, which was quite filled with guests and now illuminated for the
night.
"Not now," I heard Margaret whisper, drawing back a little; "wait a few
moments."
"Oh! it will be all over in a second," said he, taking her hand and
leading her up to Mrs. Linwood, who raised her eyes with surprise at the
unwonted ceremony of their approach, and the blushing trepidation of
Margaret's manner.
"Permit me to introduce Mrs. Regulus," said he, with a low bow; and
though he reddened to the roots of his hair, he looked round with a
smiling and triumphant glance. Margaret curtsied with mock humility down
to the ground, then breaking loose from his hand, she burst into one of
her Madge Wildfire laughs, and attempted to escape from the room. But
she was intercepted by Dr. Harlowe, who caught her by the arm and kissed
her with audible good-will, declaring it was a physician's fee. The
announcement of the marriage was received with acclamation and clapping
of hands. You should have heard Edith laugh; it was like the chime of
silvery bells. It was so astonishing she could not, would not believe
it. It was exactly like one of Meg's wild pranks to play such a farce.
But it was a solemn truth. Margaret, the bride of the morning, became
the presiding queen of the evening; and had it not been for the lonely
occupant of the library, how gaily and happily the hours would have
flown by. How must the accents of mirth that echoed through the hall
torture, if they reached his morbid and sensitive ear! If I could only
go to him and tell him the cause of the unwonted merriment; but I dared
not do it. It would be an infringement of the sacredness of his
expiatory vow. He would know it, however, at the supper table; but no!
he did not appear at the supper table. He sent a message to his mother,
that he did not wish any, and the hospitable board was filled without
him.
"I can hardly forgive you, Margaret," said Mrs. Linwood, "for not giving
us an opportunity of providing a wedding feast. How much better it would
have been to have had the golden ring and fatted calf of welcome, than
this plain, every-day meal."
"Your every-day meals are better than usual wedding feasts," replied
Margaret, "and I do not see why one should eat more on such an occasion
than any other. You know _I_ care nothing for the good things of this
life, though Mr. Regulus may be disappointed."
"Indeed, you are mistaken," said Mr. Regulus, blushing. "I think so
little of what I eat and drink, I can hardly tell the difference between
tea and coffee."
This was literally true, and many a trick had been played upon him at
his boarding place while seated at his meals, with an open book at the
left side of his plate, and his whole mind engaged in its contents.
"Mrs. Regulus," said Dr. Harlowe, giving due accent to her new name,
"is, as everyone must perceive, one of those ethereal beings who care
for nothing more substantial than beefsteak, plum-pudding, and
mince-pie. Perhaps an airy slice of roast turkey might also tempt her
abstemiousness!"
"Take care, Doctor,--I have some one to protect me now against your
lawless tongue," cried Madge, with inimitable good-humor.
"Come and dine with us to-morrow, and you shall prove my words a libel,
if you please. I cannot say that my wife will be able to give you any
thing better than Mrs. Linwood's poor fare, but it shall be sweetened by
a heart-warm welcome, and we will drink the health of the bonny bride in
a glass of ruby wine!"
And was it possible that no note was taken of the strange absence of the
master of the table? Was it no check to social joy and convivial
pleasure? It undoubtedly was, in the first place; but Margaret's
exhilarating presence neutralized the effect produced by his absence on
the spirits of the guests. The occasion, too, was so unexpected, so
inspiring, that even I, sad and troubled as I was, could not help
yielding in some degree to its gladdening influence.
After supper I had a long and delightful conversation with my
metamorphosed preceptor. He spoke of his marriage with all the
ingenuousness and simplicity of a child. He thanked me for having told
him, when I parted from him in New York that he had an influence over
Margaret that he had not dreamed of possessing. It made him, he said,
more observant of her, and more careful of himself, till he ready found
her a pleasant study. And somehow, when he had returned to his country
home, it seemed dull without her; and he found himself thinking of her,
and then writing to her, and then going to see her,--till, to his
astonishment, he found himself a lover and a husband. His professorship,
too, happened to come at the exact moment, for it emboldened him with
hopes of success he could not have cherished as a village teacher.
"How the wild creature happened to love me, a grave, ungainly pedagogue,
I cannot divine," he added; "but if gratitude, tenderness, and the most
implicit confidence in her truth and affection can make her happy, she
shall never regret her heart's choice."
_Confidence_ did he say? Happy, thrice happy Margaret!