It was an evening of excitement. Edith sang, and Margaret played some of
her elfin strains, and Mr. Regulus made music leap joyously from the
sounding violin. There was one in the lonely library who might have made
sweeter music than all, whose spirit's chords were all jangled and
tuneless, and whose ear seemed closed to the concord of melodious
sounds. _My_ soul was not tuned to harmony now, but still there was
something soothing in its influence, and it relieved me from the
necessity of talking, the exertion of _seeming_ what I could not _be_.
It was a luxury to glide unnoticed on the stream of thought, though dark
the current, and leading into troubled waters. It was a luxury to think
that the sighs of the heart might breathe unheard in the midst of the
soft rolling waves of Edith's melody, or the dashing billows of
Margaret's. Sometimes when I imagined myself entirely unobserved, and
suffered the cloud of sadness that brooded over my spirits to float
outwards, if I accidentally raised my eyes, I met those of Richard Clyde
fixed on me with an expression of such intense and thrilling sympathy, I
would start with a vague consciousness of guilt for having elicited such
expressive glances.
Madge was playing as only Madge could play, and Edith standing near the
door that opened into the saloon in the front parlor. She looked
unusually pale, and her countenance was languid. Was she thinking of
Julian, the young artist at the Falls, and wondering if the brief
romance of their love were indeed a dream? All at once a change, quick
as the electric flash, passed over her face. A bright, rosy cloud rolled
over its pallor, like morning breaking in Alpine snows. Even the paly
gold of her hair seemed to catch the glory that so suddenly and
absolutely illumined her. She was looking into the saloon, and I
followed the direction of her kindling eyes. Julian was at that moment
crossing the threshold. She had seen him ascending the steps, and her
heart sprang forth to meet him. I saw her hesitate, look round for her
mother, who was not near her, then, while the rosy cloud deepened to
crimson, she floated into the saloon.
I went to Mrs. Linwood, who was in the back parlor, to tell her of the
arrival of the new guest. She started and changed color. His coming was
the seal of Edith's destiny. "I will not come," he had said to her in
parting, "till I can bring abundant testimonials of my spotless lineage
and irreproachable reputation."
I had drawn her apart from the company, expecting she would be agitated
by the annunciation.
"Should not Ernest know of this?" I asked. "He did not abjure all the
rites of hospitality. Oh, for Edith's sake, tell him of Julian's
arrival, and entreat him to come forth and welcome him."
"I have been to him once and urged him to greet Mr. Regulus, and merely
offer him the usual congratulations on his marriage, but he persistingly
refused. I fear he is killing himself by this spirit-scourging vow. I
never saw him look so pale and wretched as he does to-night. I dread
more and more the consequences of this self-inflicted martyrdom."
As I looked up in Mrs. Linwood's face, on which the light of the
chandelier resplendently shone, I observed lines of care on her smooth
brow, which were not there two weeks before. The engraver was doing his
work delicately, secretly, but he was at work, and it was Ernest's hand
that guided the steel as it left its deepening grooves.
"O! that I dared to go to him!" said I; "may I, dear mother? I can but
be denied. I will speak to him as a friend, coldly if it must be, but
let me speak to him. He can but bid me leave him."
"You too, my darling," said she, in a low, sad-toned voice, "you are
wilting like a flower deprived of sunshine and dew. But go. Take this
key. He locks himself within, and all you can do he will not grant
admittance. The only way is to use this pass-key, which you must return
to me. I must go and welcome Julian."
She put the key in my hand, and turned away with a sigh. I trembled at
my own audacity. I had never forced myself into his presence, for the
dullness of his vow was upon me, and the hand that would have removed
the icy barrier he had raised between us was numbed by its coldness.
The way that led to the library was winding, sweeping by the lofty
staircase, and terminating in a kind of picture gallery. Some of these
were relics of the old Italian masters, and their dark, rich coloring
came out in the lamp light with gloomy splendor. I had seen them a
hundred times, but never had they impressed me with such lurid grandeur
as now. One by one, the dark lines started on the canvas glowing with
strange life, and standing out in bold, sublime relief. I hurried by
them and stood in front of the library door with the key trembling in my
hand. I heard no sound within. All was still as death. Perhaps,
exhausted by his lonely vigils, he slept, and it would be cruel to
awaken him. Perhaps he would frown on me in anger, for not respecting
the sanctity of his vow. I had seen him at noon, but he did not speak or
look at me; and as his mother said, he had never appeared so pale, so
heart-worn, and so wretched. He was evidently ill and suffering, though
to his mother's anxious inquiries he declared himself well, perfectly
well. There was one thing which made me glad. The gay, mingling laughs,
the sounds of social joy, of music and mirth, came so softened through
the long winding avenue, that they broke against the library in a soft,
murmuring wave that could not be heard within.
Why did I stand trembling and irresolute, as if I had no right to
penetrate that lonely apartment? He was my husband, and a wife's
agonized solicitude had drawn me to him. If he repulsed me, I could but
turn away and weep;--and was not my pillow wet with nightly tears?
Softly I turned the key, and the door opened, as if touched by invisible
hands. He did not hear me,--I know he did not,--for he sat at the upper
end of the room, on a window seat, leaning back against the drapery of
the curtain that fell darkly behind him. His face was turned towards the
window, through whose parted damask the starry night looked in. But
though his face was partially turned from me, I could see its contour
and its hue as distinctly as those of the marble busts that surrounded
him. He looked scarcely less hueless and cold, and his hand, that lay
embedded in his dark wavy hair, gleamed white and transparent as
alabaster. I stood just within the door, with suspended breath and
wildly palpitating heart, praying for courage to break the spell that
bound me to the spot. All my strength was gone. I felt myself a guilty
intruder in that scene of self-humiliation, penance, and prayer. Though
reason condemned his conduct, and mourned over his infatuation, the
holiness of his purpose shone around him and sanctified him from
ridicule and contempt. There was something pure, spiritual, almost
unearthly in his countenance; but suffering and languor cast a shadow
over it, that appealed to human sympathy.
If he would only move, only turn towards me! The Israelites, at the foot
of the cloud-girdled mount, whose fiery zone they were forbidden to
pass, could scarcely have felt more awe and dread than I did, strange
and weak as it may seem. I moved nearer, still more near, till my shadow
fell upon him. Then he started and rose to his feet, and looked upon me,
like one suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.
"Gabriella!" he exclaimed.
Oh! I cannot describe the inexpressible softness, tenderness, and music
of his accent. It was as if the whole heart were melting into that
single word. All my preconceived resolutions vanished, all coldness,
alienation, and constraint. "I had found him whom my soul loved." My
arms were twined around him,--I was clasped to his bosom with the most
passionate emotion, and the hearts so violently wrenched asunder once
more throbbed against each other.
"Ernest, beloved Ernest!"
"Temptress, sorceress!" he suddenly exclaimed, pushing me from him with
frenzied gesture,--"you have come to destroy my soul,--I have broken my
solemn vow,--I have incurred the vengeance of Almighty God. Peace was
flowing over me like a river, but now all the waves and billows of
passion are gone over me. I sink,--I perish, and you, you,--Gabriella,
it is you who plunge me in the black abyss of perjury and guilt."
I was terrified at the dark despair that settled on his brow. I feared
his reason was forsaking him, and that I, in my rashness, had
accelerated his doom.
"Do not, do not talk so dreadfully, Ernest. Forgive me, if I have done
wrong in coming. Forgive me, if for one moment I recalled you to the
tenderness you have so long abjured. But mine is the offence, and mine
be the sorrow. Do not, I pray you, blame yourself so cruelly for my
transgression, if it indeed be one. Oh, Ernest, how pale, how wretched
you look! You are killing yourself and me,--your mother too. We cannot
live in this state of alienation. The time of your vow is only half
expired,--only twenty days are past, and they seem twenty years of woe.
Dear Ernest, you are tempting God by this. One tear of penitence, one
look of faith, one prayer to Christ for mercy, are worth more than years
of penance and lonely torture. Revoke this rash vow. Come back to us, my
Ernest,--come down from the wilderness, leave the desolate places of
despair, and come where blessings wait you. Your mother waits to bless
you,--Edith waits you to greet and welcome her Julian,--Margaret, a
happy bride, waits your friendly congratulations. Come, and disperse by
your presence the shadow that rests on the household."
"Would you indeed counsel me to break a solemn vow, Gabriella? It may
have been rash; but it was a vow; and were I to break it, I should feel
forever dishonored in the sight of God and man."
"Which, think you, had more weight when placed in the scales of eternal
justice, Herod's rash vow, or the life of the holy prophet sacrificed to
fulfil it? O Ernest!--wild, impulsive words forced from the lips of
passion should never be made guides of action. It is wrong, I know, to
speak unwisely and madly, but doubly, trebly wrong to act so."
As thus I pleaded and reasoned and entreated, I kept my earnest gaze on
his face, and eagerly watched,--watched with trembling hope and fear the
effect of my words. I had drawn back from him as far as the width of the
library, and my hands were clasped together and pressed upon my bosom. I
did not know that I stood directly beneath the picture of the Italian
flower-girl, till I saw his glance uplifted from my face to hers, with
an expression that recalled the morning when he found me gazing on her
features, in all the glow of youth, love, joy, and hope. Then I
remembered how he had scattered my rose leaves beneath his feet, and
what a prophetic sadness had then shaded my spirits.
"Alas! my poor Gabriella," he cried, looking down from the picture to
me, with an expression of the tenderest compassion; "Alas, my
flower-girl! how have I wilted your blooming youth! You are pale, my
girl, and sad,--that bewitching smile no longer parts your glowing lips.
Would to God I had never crossed your path of roses with my withering
footsteps! Would to God I had never linked your young, confiding heart
to mine, so blasted by suspicion, so consumed by jealousy's baleful
fires! Yet, Heaven knows I meant to make you happy. I meant to watch
over you as tenderly as the mother over her new-born infant,--as holily
as the devotee over the shrine of the saint he adores. How faithless I
have been to this guardianship of love, you know too well. I have been a
madman, a monster,--you know I have,--worthy of eternal detestation. But
you have not suffered alone. Remorse--unquenchable fire;
remorse--undying worm, avenges every pang I have inflicted on you.
Remorse goaded me to desperation,--desperation prompted the expiatory
vow. It must be fulfilled, or I shall forfeit my self-respect, my honor,
and truth. But I shall be better, stronger,--I feel I shall, after
passing this stern ordeal. It will soon be over, and I have a confidence
so firm that it has the strength of conviction, that in this lonely
conflict with the powers of darkness I shall come off conqueror, through
God's assisting angels."
He spoke with fervor, and his countenance lighted up with enthusiasm.
Bodily weakness and languor had disappeared, and his transparent cheek
glowed with the excitement of his feelings.
"If you are really thus supported by divine enthusiasm," I said, with an
involuntary kindling of admiration, "perhaps I ought to submit in
silence, where I cannot understand. Forgive me before I leave you,
Ernest, this rash intrusion. We may forgive even our enemies."
"Forgive, Gabriella! Oh! if you knew the flood of joy and rapture that
for one moment deluged my soul! I dare not recall it. Forgive, O my
God!"
He turned away, covered his face with his left hand, and made a
repelling gesture with the other. I understood the motion, and obeyed
it.
"Farewell, Ernest," said I, slowly retreating; "may angels minister to
you and bear up your spirit on their wings of love!"
I looked back, on the threshold, and met his glance then turned towards
me. Had I been one of the angels I invoked, it could not have been more
adoring.
And thus we parted; and when I attempted to describe the interview to
his mother, I wept and sobbed as if I had been paying a visit to his
grave. And yet I was glad that I had been, glad that I had bridged the
gulf that separated us, though but momentarily.
Perhaps some may smile at this record. I have no doubt they will, and
pronounce the character of Ernest unnatural and _impossible_. But in all
his idiosyncrasy, he is the Ernest Linwood of Grandison Place, just such
as I have delineated him, just such as I knew and loved. I know that
there are scenes that have seemed, that will seem, overwrought, and I
have often been tempted to throw down the pen, regretting the task I
have undertaken. But, were we permitted to steal behind the scenes of
many a life drama, what startling discoveries would we make! Reality
goes beyond the wildest imaginings of romance,--beyond the majestic
sweep of human genius. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination
conceived, the wild extent to which the passions of man may go. The
empire of passion is veiled, and its battle ground is secret Who beheld
the interview in the library, which I have just described? Who saw him
kneeling at his mother's feet at the midnight hour? Or who witnessed our
scenes of agony and reconciliation in the palace walls of our winter
home? Ah! the world sees only the surface of the great deep of the
heart. It has never plunged into the innermost main,--never beheld the
seething and the rolling of the unfathomable mystery:--
"And where is the diver so stout to go,--
I ask ye again--to the deep below?"
Well do I remember the thrilling legend of the roaring whirlpools, the
golden goblet, and the dauntless diver, and well do I read its meaning.
O Ernest! I have cast the golden goblet of happiness into a maelstrom,
and he alone, who walked unsinking the waves of Galilee, can bring back
the lost treasure from the dark and boiling vortex.