I wish my father could have seen the home of my youth, when he first
beheld it, in the greenness of spring or the bloom of summer; but white,
cold, and dazzling was the lawn, and bleak, bare, and leafless the grand
old elms and the stately brotherhood of oaks that guarded the avenue.
With pride, gratitude, joy, and a thousand mingling emotions, I
introduced my father into a dwelling consecrated by so many
recollections of happiness and woe. The cloud was removed from my birth,
the stain from my lineage. I could now exult in my parentage and glory
in my father.
Julian was there, and welcomed St. James with enthusiastic pleasure,
who, on his part, seemed to cherish for him even parental affection.
With joy and triumph beaming in his eyes and glowing on his cheek,
Julian took the lovely Edith by the hand, and introduced her as his
bride. Still occupying her usual place in her mother's home, in all her
sweetness, simplicity, and spirituality, it was difficult to believe any
change had come over her destiny. She had not waited for my presence,
because she knew the bridal wreath woven for her would recall the
blighted bloom of mine. She had no festal wedding. She could not, while
her brother's fate was wrapped in uncertainty and gloom.
One Sunday evening, after Mr. Somerville had dismissed the congregation
with the usual benediction, Julian led Edith to the altar, and her
mother stood by her side till the solemn words were uttered that made
them one. So simple and holy were the nuptial rites of the wealthy and
beautiful heiress of Grandison Place.
My father spoke in exalted terms of the young artist, of his virtues and
his genius, the singleness of his heart, the uprightness of his
principles, and the warmth and purity of his affections. Had he, my
father, needed any passport to the favor of Mrs. Linwood, he could not
have had a surer one; but her noble nature instantaneously recognized
his congenial and exalted worth. He had that in his air, his
countenance, and manner, that distinguished him from the sons of men, as
the planets are distinguished by their clear, intense, and steadfast
lustre among the starry ranks of heaven.
I gave him the manuscript my mother had left me, and at his request
pointed out the road and the diverging path that led to the spot where
her grave was made. I did not ask to accompany him, for I felt his
emotions were too sacred for even his daughter to witness. I mourned
that the desolation of winter was added to the dreariness of death; that
a pall of snow, white as her winding-sheet and cold as her clay, covered
the churchyard. In summer, when the grass was of an emerald green and
the willows waved their weeping branches with a gentle rustle against
the clustering roses, whose breath perfumed and whose blossoms
beautified the place of graves, it was sweet, though sad, to wander amid
the ruins of life, and meditate on its departed joys.
The broken shaft, twined with a drooping wreath carved in bas-relief,
which rose above my mother's ashes, and the marble stone which marked
the grave of Peggy, were erected the year after their deaths. The money
which rewarded my services in the academy had been thus appropriated, or
rather a portion of it. The remainder had been given to the poor, as
Mrs. Linwood always supplied my wardrobe, as she did Edith's, and left
no want of my own to satisfy, not even a wish to indulge. I mention this
here, because it occurred to my mind that I had not done Mrs. Linwood
perfect justice with regard to the motives which induced her to
discipline my character.
I did not see my father for hours after his return. He retired to his
chamber, and did not join the family circle till the evening lamps were
lighted. He looked excessively pale, even wan, and his countenance
showed how much he had suffered. Edith was singing when he came in, and
he made a motion for her to continue; for it was evident he did not wish
to converse. I sat down by him without speaking; and putting his arm
round me, he drew me closely to his side. The plaintive melody of
Edith's voice harmonized with the melancholy tone of his feelings, and
seemed to shed on his soul a balmy and delicious softness. His spirit
was with my mother in the dreams of the past, rather than the hopes of
the future; and the memory of its joys lived again in music's heavenly
breath.
It is a blessed thing to be remembered in death as my mother was. Her
image was enshrined in her husband's heart, in the bloom and freshness
of unfaded youth, as he had last beheld her,--and such it would ever
remain. He had not seen the mournful process of fading and decay. To
him, she was the bride of immortality; and his love partook of her own
freshness and youth and bloom. Genius is _La fontaine de jouvence_, in
whose bright, deep waters the spirit bathes and renews its morning
prime. It is the well-spring of the heart,--the Castaly of the soul. St.
James had lived amid forms of ideal beauty, till his spirit was imbued
with their loveliness as with the fragrance of flowers, and he breathed
an atmosphere pure as the world's first spring. He was _young_, though
past the meridian of life. There was but one mark of age upon his
interesting and noble person, and that was the snowy shade that softened
his raven hair,--foam of the waves of time, showing they had been lashed
by the storms, or driven against breakers and reefs of destiny.
The first time I took him into the library, he stopped before the
picture of Ernest. I did not tell him whose it was. He gazed upon it
long and earnestly.
"What a countenance!" he exclaimed. "I can see the lights and shades of
feeling flashing and darkening over it. It has the troubled splendor of
a tropic night, when clouds and moonbeams are struggling. Is it a
portrait, or an ideal picture?"
"It is Ernest,--it is my husband," I answered; and it seemed to me as if
all the ocean surges that rolled between us were pressing their cold
weight on my heart.
"My poor girl! my beloved Gabriella! All your history is written there."
I threw myself in his arms, and wept. Had I seen Ernest dead at my feet,
I could not have felt more bitter grief. I had never indulged it so
unrestrainedly before in his presence, for I had always thought more of
him than myself; and in trying to cheer him, I had found cheerfulness.
Now I remembered only Ernest's idolatrous love, and his sorrows and
sufferings, forgetting my own wrongs; and I felt there would always be
an aching void which even a father's and brother's tenderness (for
brother I still called Richard) could never fill.
"Oh, my father," I cried, "bear with my weakness,--bear with me a little
while. There is comfort in weeping on a father's bosom, even for a loss
like mine. I shall never see him again. He is dead, or if living, is
dead to me. You cannot blame me, father. You see there a faint semblance
of what he is,--splendid, fascinating, and haunting, though at times so
dark and fearful. No words of mine can give an idea of the depth, the
strength, the madness of his love. It has been the blessing and the
bane, the joy and the terror, the angel and the demon of my life. I know
it was sinful in its wild excess, and mine was sinful, too, in its blind
idolatry, and I know the blessing of God could not hallow such a union.
But how can I help feeling the dearth, the coldness, the weariness
following such passionate emotions? How can I help feeling at times,
that the sun of my existence is set, and a long, dark night before me?"
He did not answer,--he only pressed me convulsively to his heart, and I
felt one hot tear, and then another and another falling on my brow.
Oh! it is cruel to wring tears from the strong heart of man; cruel,
above all, to wring them from a father's heart,--that heart whose own
sorrows had lately bled afresh. Every drop fell heavy and burning as
molten lead on my conscience. I had been yielding to a selfish burst of
grief, thoughtless of the agony I was inflicting.
"Forgive me, father!" I cried, "forgive me! On my knees, too, I will
pray my Heavenly Father to forgive the rebel who dares to murmur at his
chastisements, when new and priceless blessings gladden her life. I
thought I had learned submission,--and I have, father, I have kissed in
love and faith the Almighty hand that laid me low. This has been a dark
moment, but it is passed."
I kissed his hand, and pressed it softly over my glistening eyes.
"Forgive you, my child!" he repeated, "for a sorrow so natural, so
legitimate, and which has so much to justify it! I have wondered at your
fortitude and disinterested interest in others,--I have wondered at your
Christian submission, your unmurmuring resignation, and I wonder still.
But you must not consider your destiny as inevitably sad and lonely. You
have not had time yet to receive tidings from India. If, after the
letter you have written, your husband does not return with a heart
broken by penitence and remorse, and his dark and jealous passions slain
by the sword of conviction, piercing two-edged and sharp to the very
marrow of his spirit, he is not worthy of thee, my spotless, precious
child; and the illusion of love will pass away, showing him to be
selfish, tyrannical, and cruel, a being to be shunned and pitied, but no
longer loved. Do not shudder at the picture I have drawn. The soul that
speaks from those eyes of thousand meanings," added he, looking at the
portrait that gazed upon us with powerful and thrilling glance, "must
have some grand and redeeming qualities. I trust in God that it will
rise above the ashes of passion, purified and regenerated. Then your
happiness will have a new foundation, whose builder and maker is God."
"Oh! dear father!" was all I could utter. He spoke like one who had the
gift of prophecy, and my spirit caught the inspiration of his words.
I have not spoken of Richard, for I had so much to say of my father, but
I did not forget him. He accompanied us to Grandison Place, though he
remained but a few days. I could not help feeling sad to see how the
sparkling vivacity of his youth had passed away, the diamond brightness
which reminded one of rippling waters in their sunbeams. But if less
brilliant, he was far more interesting. Stronger, deeper, higher
qualities were developed. The wind-shaken branches of thought stretched
with a broader sweep. The roots of his growing energies, wrenched by the
storm, struck firmer and deeper, and the wounded bark gave forth a pure
and invigorating odor.
I walked with him, the evening before his departure, in the avenue from
which the snow had been swept, leaving a smooth, wintry surface below. I
was wrapped in furs, and the cold, frosty air braced me like a pair of
strong arms.
I had so much to say to Richard, and now I was alone with him. I walked
on in silence, feeling as if words had never been invented to express
our ideas.
"You will never feel the want of a father's care and affection," at
length I said. "My father could not love you better if you were his own
son; and surely no own brother could be dearer, Richard, than you are
and ever will be to me. You must not look mournfully on the past, but
forward into a brightening future."
"I have but one object in life now," he answered, "and that is, to
improve the talents God has given me for the benefit of mankind. I am
not conscious of any personal hope or ambition, but a strong sense of
duty acts upon me, and will save me from the corrosion of disappointment
and the listlessness of despair."
"But you will not always feel so, Richard. You will experience a strong
reaction soon, and new-born hopes and aspirations will shine gloriously
to guide you upward and onward in your bright career. Think how young
you are yet, Richard."
"The consciousness of youth does not always bring joy. It cannot, when
youthful hopes are blighted, Gabriella. One cannot tear up at once the
deep-rooted affections of years. Never was a love planted deeper, firmer
than mine for you, before the soil of the heart had known the hardening
winds of destiny. Start not, Gabriella, I am not going to utter one
sentiment which, as a wife, you need blush to hear; but the parting
hour, like that of death, is an honest one, and I must speak as I feel.
May you never know or imagine my wretchedness when I believed you to be
my sister, knowing that though innocent, I had been guilty, and that I
could not love you merely with a brother's love. Thank heaven! you are
my cousin. Ten thousand winning sweetnesses cluster round this dear
relationship. The dearest, the strongest, the purest I have ever known."
"You will know a stronger, a dearer one, dear Richard,--you do not know
yet how strong."
"I shall never think of my own happiness, Gabriella, till I am assured
of yours."
"Then I will try to be happy for your sake."
"And if it should be that the ties severed by misfortune and distance
are never renewed, you will remain with your father, and I will make my
home with you, and it will be the business of both our lives to make you
happy. No flower of the green-house was ever more tenderly cherished and
guarded than you shall be, best beloved of so many hearts!"
"Thank you, oh, thank you, for all your tenderness, so far beyond my
worth. Friend, brother, cousin, with you and such a father to love me, I
ought to be the happiest and most grateful of human beings. But tell me
one thing, dear Richard, before we part; do you forgive Ernest the wrong
he has done you, freely and fully?"
"From the bottom of my heart I do."
"And should we ever meet again, may I tell him so?"
"Tell him I have nothing to forgive, for, believing as he did, vengeance
could not wing a bolt of wrath too red, too deadly. But I would not
recall the past. Your father beckons us,--he fears the frosty evening
air for you, but it has given a glowing rose to your cheeks!"
My father stood on the threshold to greet us, with that benign smile,
that beautiful, winning smile that had so long been slumbering on his
face, but which grew brighter and brighter every time it beamed on my
soul.
The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad. Dr. Harlowe and Mr.
Somerville were with us; and though the events with which he had been
associated had somewhat sobered the doctor's mirthful propensities, the
geniality of his character was triumphant over every circumstance.
My father expressed to him the most fervent gratitude for his parental
kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt.
"You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe; "and even if you did, and were
the debt ten times beyond your grateful appreciation of it, I should
consider myself repaid by the privilege of calling you my friend."
No one could speak with more feeling or dignity than the doctor, when
the right chord was touched. He told me he had never seen the man he
admired so much as my father; and how proud and happy it made me to have
him say so, and know that his words were true! No one who has not felt
as I did, the mortification, the shame and anguish of believing myself
the daughter of a convicted criminal, can understand the intense, the
almost worshipping reverence with which I regarded my late-found parent.
To feel pride instead of humiliation, exultation instead of shame, and
love instead of abhorrence, how great the contrast, how unspeakable the
relief, how sublime and holy the gratitude!