"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."
"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 sayam, 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 knowIcare 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."
Confidencedid he say? Happy, thrice happy Margaret!
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.Mysoul 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 ofseemingwhat I could notbe. 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 andimpossible. 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?"
"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.
Julian was worthy of Edith. His parentage was honorable and pure, his connections irreproachable, and his own character noble and unblemished. Reason could oppose no obstacle, and the young artist was received into the family as the betrothed of the lovely lame girl.
The romantic idea which had suggested itself to my mind, that he might be the son of Therésa and my own half-brother, had vanished before the testimonies of his birth. Another daydream too. I had always looked forward to the hour when Richard would transfer his affections to Edith, and be rewarded by her love for his youthful disappointment. But she was destined to reign in undivided sovereignty over a heart that had never been devoted to another; to be loved with all the fervor of passion and all the enthusiasm of genius.
It was the day of social gathering at Dr. Harlowe's; but I remained at home. I felt as if I could not be missed from the circle in which Madge, in bridal charms, sparkled a ruby gem, and the fairer Edith shone, a living pearl. Though scarcely one year a wife, the discipline of my wedded experience had so chastened and subdued me, I seemed to myself quite a matron, beside those on whom the morning glow of love and hope were beaming. Madge and Edith were both older than myself, and yet I had begun to live far earlier.
In the later part of the day, Mrs. Linwood, who had also remained at home, asked me to accompany her in a ride. She wished to visit several who were sick and afflicted, and I always felt it a privilege to be her companion.
"Will you object to calling here?" she asked, when we approached the old gray cottage, once my mother's home and my own. "There is a sick woman here, whom I wish to see. You can walk about the green skirting the woods, if you prefer. This enchanting breeze will give new life to your body and new brightness to your spirits."
I thanked her for the permission, knowing well the kind regard to my feelings which induced her to give it. She knew sad memories must hang around the apartments where my mother and the faithful Peggy had suffered and died; and that it would be a trial to me to see strangers occupying the places so hallowed by association.
Time had been at work on that old cottage, with its noiseless but effacing fingers. And its embroidering fingers too, for the roof from which many a shingle had fallen, was green with garlands of moss, wrought into the damp and mouldering wood with exquisite grace and skill. I turned away with a sigh, and beheld infancy by the side of the humble ruin, the oriental palace which was my bridal home, and wondered at the marvellous changes of life.
I wandered to the welling spring by whose gushing waters I had so often sat, indulging the wild poetry of my childish imagination. I gazed around, scarcely recognizing the once enchanting spot. A stone had literally rolled against the mouth of the fountain, and the crystal diamonds no longer sparkled in the basin below. An awkward pump, put up near the cabin, explained this appearance of neglect and wildness. The soft grassy slope where I used to recline and watch the fountain's silvery play, was overgrown with tall, rank, rustling weeds, among which I could distinguish the deadly bloom and sickening odor of the nightshade. There was a rock covered with the brightest, richest covering of dark green moss, on which I seated myself, and gave myself up to the memories of the past. Perhaps this was the same rock on which Richard Clyde and I had often sat side by side, and watched the shadows of twilight purple the valley.
I untied my bonnet and laid it on the long grass, for I was shaded from the western sun, and the breeze blew fresh and pure from the hills he was about to crown with a right royal diadem. While I thus sat, I heard footsteps quick and eager echoing behind, and Richard Clyde bounded down the slope and threw himself on the ground at my side.
"Thank heaven," he exclaimed, "I have found you, Gabriella, and found you alone!"
His manner was hurried and agitated, his eyes had a wild expression, and tossing aside his hat, he wiped thick-coming drops of perspiration from his forehead.
His words, and the unusual excitement of his manner, alarmed me.
"What has happened, Richard? Where have you sought me? What tidings have you to communicate? Speak, and tell me, for I tremble with fear."
"I am so agitated," he cried, sitting down on the rock at my side, and taking one of my hands in his. I started, for his was so icy cold and tremulous, and his face was as pale as Ernest's. He looked like one who had escaped some terrible danger, and in whose bosom horror and gratitude were struggling for mastery.
"Is it of Ernest you have come to tell me?" I asked, with blanched lips.
"No, no, no! I know nothing of him. It is of myself,—of you, I would speak. I have just made the most astonishing discovery! Never till now have I heard your real name and early history. O! Gabriella you whom I have loved so long with such fervor, such passion, such idolatry,—you (O righteous God forgive me!) are the daughter of my father,—for Therésa La Fontaine was my own mother. Gabriella,—sister,—beloved!"
He clasped me to his bosom; he kissed me again and again, weeping and sobbing like a child. In broken words he deplored his sinful passion, entreating me to forgive him, to love him as a brother, to cling to him as a friend, and feel that there was one who would live to protect, or die to defend me. Bewildered and enraptured by this most unthought of and astounding discovery, my heart acknowledged its truth and glowed with gratitude and joy. Richard, the noble-hearted, gallant Richard, was my brother! My soul's desire was satisfied. How I had yearned for a brother! and to find him,—and such a brother! Oh I joy unspeakable. Oh! how strange,—how passing strange,—how almost passing credulity!
At any moment this discovery would have been welcomed with rapture. But now, when the voluntary estrangement of Ernest had thrown my warm affections back for the time into my own bosom, to pine for want of cherishing, it came like a burst of sunshine after a long and dreary darkness,—like the music of gushing waters to the feverish and thirsty pilgrim.
My heart was too full for questions, and his for explanations. They would come in due time. He wasmy brother,—that was enough. Ernest could not be jealous of a brother's love. He would own with pride the fraternal bond, and forget the father's crimes in the son's virtues.
It seemed but a moment since Richard had called me sister. Neither of us had spoken, for tears choked our words; but our arms were still entwined, and my head rested on his bosom, in all the abandonment of nature's holiest feelings. All at once I heard a rustling in the grass, soft and stealthy like a gliding snake. I raised my head, looked back, looked up.
Merciful Father of heaven and earth! did I not then pass the agonies of death?
I saw a face,—my God! how dark, how deadly, how terrible it was! I knew that face, and my heart was rifted as if by a thunderbolt.
The loud report of a pistol, and a shriek such as never before issued from mortal lips, bursting from mine, were simultaneous sounds. Richard fell back with a deep groan. Then there seemed a rushing sound as the breaking up of the great deep, a heaving and tossing like the throes of an earthquake; then a sinking, sinking, lower and lower, and then a cloud black as night and heavy as iron came lowering and crushing me,—me, and the bleeding Richard. All was darkness,—silence,—oblivion.
A light, soft and glimmering as morning twilight, floated round me. Was it the dawn of an eternal morning, or the lingering radiance of life's departing day? Did my spirit animate the motionless body extended on that snowy bed, or was it hovering, faint and invisible, above the confines of mortality?
I was just awakened to the consciousness of existence,—a dim, vague consciousness, such as one feels in a dissolving dream. I seemed involved in a white, transparent cloud, and reclining on one of those downy-looking cloud-beds that I have seen waiting to receive the sinking sun.
While thus I lay, living the dawning life of infancy, the white cloud softly rolled on one side, and a figure appeared in the opening, that belonged to a previous state of existence. I had seen its mild lineaments in another world; but when,—how long ago?
My eyes rested on the features of the lady till they grew more and more familiar, but there was a white cloud round her face, that threw a mournful shadow over it,—thatI had never seen before. Again my eyelids closed, and I seemed passing away, where, I knew not; yet consciousness remained. I felt soft, trembling kisses breathed upon my face, and tears too, mingling with their balm. With a delicious perception of tenderness, watchfulness, and love, I sunk into a deep, deep sleep.
When I awoke, the silver lustre of an astral lamp, shaded by a screen, glimmered in the apartment and quivered like moonbeams in the white drapery that curtained the bed. I knew where I was,—I was in my own chamber, and the lady who sat by my bedside, and whose profile I beheld through the parted folds of the curtains, was Mrs. Linwood. And yet, how strange! It must have been years since we had met, for the lovely brown of her hair was now a pale silver gray, and age had laid its withering hand on her brow. With a faint cry, I ejaculated her name, and attempted to raise my head from the pillow, but in vain. I had no power of motion. Even the exertion of uttering her name was beyond my strength. She rose, bent over me, looked earnestly and long into the eyes uplifted to her face, then dropping on her knees and clasping her hands, her spirit went upwards in silent prayer.
As thus she knelt, and I gazed on her upturned countenance, shaded by that strange, mournful, silver cloud, my thoughts began to shape themselves slowly and gradually, as the features of a landscape through dissolving mists. They trembled as the foliage trembles in the breeze that disperses the vapors. Images of the past gained distinctness of outline and coloring, and all at once, like the black hull, broken mast, and rent sails of a wrecked vessel, one awful scene rose before me. The face, like that of the angel of death, the sound terrible as the thunders of doom, the bleeding body that my arms encircled, the destroying husband,—the victim brother,—all came back to me; life,—memory,—grief,—horror,—all came back.
"Ernest! Richard!" burst in anguish from my feeble lips.
"They live! my child, they live!" said Mrs. Linwood, rising from her knees and taking my passive hand in both hers; "but ask nothing now; you have been very ill, you are weak as an infant; you must be tranquil, patient, and submissive; and grateful, too, to a God of infinite mercy. When you are stronger I will talk to you, but not now. You must yield yourself to my guidance, in the spirit of an unweaned child."
"They live!" repeated I to myself, "my God, I bless thee! I lie at thy footstool. I am willing to die; I long to die. Let the waves of eternity roll over my soul."
Husband and brother! they lived, and yet neither came to me on my couch of sickness. But Richard! had not I seen him bleeding, insensible, the image of death? he lived, yet he might be on the borders of the grave. But she had commanded me to be silent, submissive, and grateful; and I tried to obey her. My physical weakness was such, it subdued the paroxysms of mental agony, and the composing draught which she gave me was a blessed Nepenthe, producing oblivion and repose.
The next day I recognized Dr. Harlowe, the excellent and beloved physician. When I called him by name, as he stood by the bed, counting my languid pulse, the good man turned aside his head to hide the womanish tears that moistened his cheeks. Then looking down on me with a benignant smile, he said, smoothing my hair on my forehead, as if I were a little child—
"Be a good girl; keep quiet; be patient as a lamb, and you will soon be well."
"How long have I been ill, Doctor?" I asked. "I am very foolish, I know; but it seems as if even you look older than you did."
"Never mind, my dear, how long you have been sick. I mean to have you well in a short time. Perhaps I do look a little older, for I have forgotten to shave this morning."
While he was speaking, I caught a glimpse of the lawn through a slight opening in the window curtain, and I uttered an exclamation of amazement and alarm. The trees which I had last beheld clothed in a foliage of living green, were covered with the golden tints of autumn; and here and there a naked bough, with prophetic desolation, waved its arm across the sky.
Where had my spirit been while the waning year had rolled on? Where was Ernest? Where was Richard? Why was I forsaken and alone?
These questions quivered on my tongue, and would have utterance.
"Tell me, Doctor,—I cannot live in this dreadful suspense."
He sat down by me, still holding my hand in his, and promised to tell me, if I would be calm and passive. He told me that for two months I had been in a state of alternate insensibility and delirium, that they had despaired of my life, and that they welcomed me as one risen from the grave. He told me that Ernest had left home, in consequence of the prayers of his mother, till Richard should recover from the effects of his wound, which they at first feared would prove fatal; that Richard was convalescent, was under the same roof with me, and would see me as soon as I could bear the meeting.
"Ernest knows that he is my brother,—he knows that I am innocent," I exclaimed, my whole soul trembling on his answer.
"I trust he knows it now," he replied, with a troubled countenance. "His mother has written and told him all. We were ignorant ourselves of this, you must recollect, till Richard was able to explain it."
"And he went away believing me a wretch!" I cried, in a tone of unutterable agony. "He will never, never return!"
"My dear child," replied Dr. Harlowe, in an accent of kind authority, "you have no right to murmur; you have been spared the most awful infliction a sovereign God could lay upon you,—a brother's life taken by a husband's hand. Praise the Almighty day and night, bless Him without ceasing, that He has lifted from your bosom this weight of woe. Be reconciled to your husband's absence. Mourn not for a separation which may prove the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon both. All may yet be well.It will be, if God wills it; and if He wills it not, my dear child, you must then lay your hand on your mouth, and your mouth in the dust, and say, 'It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth good in His sight.'"
"I know it,—I feel it," I answered, tears raining on my pillow; "but let me see my brother. It will do me good."
"By and by," said he; "he is not very strong himself yet. The young rascal! if he had only confided to me the secret with which his heart was bursting! But there is no use in crying over burnt bread. We must keep it out of the fire next time."
The entrance of Edith checked this conversation, and it was well. She came with her usual gentle motion, and fair, pitying countenance, and diffused around her an atmosphere of divine repose. My brain, relieved of the dreadful tension of suspense, throbbed soft and cool beneath the snow of her loving fingers. She, too, was pale and wan, but she smiled upon me with glistening eyes, and whispered words of sweetest consolation.
It was not till after the lapse of several days that I was permitted to see Richard, and then the doctor said he deserved a good whipping for insisting on coming. He came into the room leaning on the arm of Dr. Harlowe, and supported on the other side by Mrs. Linwood. He looked like the shadow of his former self,—so white, so thin and languid, and his countenance showed as plainly as words could speak, that he was struck with the same sad change in me.
"Now no heroics, no scene," said the doctor; "say how do you do, and shake hands, but not one bit of sentiment,—I forbid that entirely."
"My sister, my dear sister!" said Richard, bending down and kissing my forehead. He reeled as he lifted his head, and would have fallen had not Dr. Harlowe's strong arm supported him.
I longed to embrace him with all a sister's fondness, and pour out on his bosom all my sorrow and my love; but the doctor was imperative, and made him recline in an easy-chair by the bedside, threatening him with instant dismission if he were not perfectly quiet and obedient. I saw Richard start and shudder, as his eyes rested on my left arm, which hung over the counterpane. The sleeve of my loose robe had slipped up, baring the arm below the elbow. The start, the shudder, the look of anguish, made me involuntarily raise it, and then I saw a scar, as of a recently healed wound just below the elbow. I understood it all. The ball that had penetrated his back, had passed through my arm, and thus prevented it from reaching the citadel of life. That feeble arm had been his safeguard and his shield; it had intercepted the bolt of death; it had barricaded, as it were, the gates of hell.
Mrs. Linwood, who was standing by me, stooped down, kissed the scar, and drew the sleeve gently over it. As she bowed her head, and I saw the silver shadow on her late dark, brown hair, I felt how intense must have been the suffering that wrought this wondrous change,—and I resolved to bear unmurmuring my own sorrows, rather than add a feather's weight to her burden of woe.
I remembered how the queenly locks of Marie Antoinette were whitened in one night of agony. Perhaps my own dark tresses were crowned by premature snow. I had not seen myself since the green of summer had passed into the "sere and yellow leaf," and perhaps the blight of my heart was visible on my brow. When I was alone with Edith, I surprised her by asking if my hair were not white. She smiled, and bringing a toilet glass, held it before me. What was my astonishment to see my hair curling in short waves round my face, like the locks of childhood! And such a face,—so white, so colorless. I hardly recognized myself, and pushing back the glass, I burst into tears.
"Dear Gabriella!" said Edith, quite distressed, "I am sorry they cut off your beautiful hair. But the doctor said it must be done. It does not spoil you, though. You do not know how sweetly childish it makes you look."
"I care not for the looks, Edith; it is not that. But it is so dreadful to think of so many changes, and I unconscious of all. Such a long, dreary blank! Where was my soul wandering? What fearful scenes may hereafter dawn on my memory? Beauty! No, Edith; think not I weep for the cloud that has passed over it. The only eyes in which I desired to appear lovely, will never behold me more."
"You will not be the only sufferer, Gabriella," said Edith, mournfully. "A dreadful blow has fallen upon us all; but for our mother's sake, if not for a greater, we must endeavor to submit."
"Tell me, Edith, what I dare not ask of her, tell me whereheis gone, and tell me the particulars of those first dark hours when my soul was in such awful eclipse. Imustknow; and when once told, I shall be resigned, whatever be my fate."
Edith seated herself on the side of the bed, and leaned back so that I could not look in her face. Then putting her arms round me, she drew me towards her, and made me rest against her shoulder.
"If you grieve to listen, think how painful it is for me to relate," said she.
"I will," I answered; "I shall have strength to hear whatever you have fortitude to tell."
"You must not ask a minute description of what will always be involved in my remembrance in a horror of thick darkness. I know not how I got home from Dr. Harlowe's, where the tidings reached me. My mother brought you in the carriage, supported in her arms; and when I first saw you, you were lying just where you are now, perfectly insensible. Richard was carried to Dr. Harlowe's on a litter, and it wasthenfeared he might not live."
Edith's voice faltered.
"It was after sunset. The saloon was dark, and all was gloom and confusion in the household. Mamma and I were standing by your bed, with our backs to the door, when we heard a hoarse, low voice behind us, saying,—
"'Is she dead?'
"We turned, and beheld Ernest right in the door way, looking more like a spectre than a human being.
"'No, no,' answered my mother; and almost running to meet him, she seized him by the arm, drew him into the chamber, and closed the door. He struggled to be released; but she seemed to have the strength of numbers in her single grasp.
"'She is not dead,' said she, pointing to the bed, 'though she hears, sees, knows nothing; but Richard will die, and you will be arrested as a murderer. You must not linger here one moment. Go, and save yourself from the consequences of this fatal act. Go, if you would not see me, your mother, die in agony at your feet."
"Oh! Gabriella, had you seen her then, her who has such sublime self-control, prostrate at his feet, wringing her hands and entreating him to fly before it was too late, you would not wonder that the morning sun shone on her silver hair.
"'I will not fly the death for which I groan,' cried Ernest. 'Had I ten thousand lives, I would loathe and curse them all.'
"'Parricide, parricide,' exclaimed my mother, 'wo, wo be to him who spurns a kneeling mother's prayer.'
"'Oh! my mother,' cried he, endeavoring to raise her from the ground, while he shook as if with ague shiverings. 'I do not spurn you; but why should I live, with a brand blacker than Cain's on my heart and soul,—crushed, smitten, dishonored, and undone?'
"'Forbear, my son. This blighted form is sacred as it is spotless. Has not blood quenched your maniac passion?'
"The eyes of Ernest flashed with lurid fire.
"'Locked in each other's arms they fell,' he muttered through his shut teeth, 'heart to heart, mother. I saw them, and God, who will judge me, saw them. No, she isfalse, false, false,—falseas the lost angels who fell from paradise into the burning pit of doom.'
"But what am I doing, Gabriella? I did not mean to repeat this. I had become so excited by the remembrance of that terrible scene, I knew not what I was saying. You cannot bear it. I must not go on. What would my mother, what would Dr. Harlowe say, if they knew of this?"
I entreated her to continue. I told her that nothing she had said was half so dreadful as my imagination had depicted, that I grew strong with my need of strength.
"And you and your mother believed him," I said, with astonishing calmness; "you knew not that Richard was my brother."
"Had it not been for your wounded arm," replied Edith, laying her hand gently on the scar, "we should have supposed he was under a strong delusion to believe a lie. Appearances were against you, and your condemnation was my brother's palliation, if not acquittal. My mother continued her supplications, mingled with tears and sighs that seemed to rend the life from her bosom; and I, Gabriella, do you thinkIwas silent and passive? I, who would willingly have laid down my life for his? We prevailed,—he yielded,—he left us in the darkness of night,—the darkness of despair. It is more than two months since, and we have received no tidings of the wanderer. My mother urged him to go to New York and remain till he heard the fate of Richard. She has written to him there, again and again, but as yet has received no answer."
"And he went without one farewell look of her whom he deemed so vile,—so lost?" said I, pressing Edith's hand against my cold and sinking heart.
"No, Gabriella. His last act was to kneel by your side, and pray God to forgive you both. Twice he went to the door, then coming back he bent over you as if he would clasp you in his arms; then with a wild ejaculation he turned away. Never saw I such anguish in the human countenance."
"I have but one question more to ask," said I, after a long pause, whose dreariness was that which follows the falling of the clods in the grave hollow. "How did Ernest know that Richard was with me, when we left him alone in the library?"
"Dr. Harlowe accidentally alluded to your father's history before Richard, who, you recollect, was in foreign lands during the excitement it caused, and had never heard the circumstances. As soon as he heard the name of St. James, I saw him start, and turn to the doctor with a flushed and eager countenance. Then he drew him one side, and they conversed together some time in a low undertone; and Richard's face, red one moment and white the next, flashed with strange and shifting emotions. At the time when your father's name obtained such unhappy notoriety, and yours through him, in the public papers, my mother confided to Dr. Harlowe, who was greatly troubled on your account, the particulars of your mother's life. She thought it due to your mother's memory, and his steady friendship. I know not how much he told Richard, whose manner evidently surprised him, but we all noticed that he was greatly agitated; and then he abruptly took leave. He came immediately here, and inquired for you, asked where you were gone, and hurried away as if on an errand of life and death. Ernest, who was passing along the winding gallery, heard him, and followed."
Another dreary pause. Then I remembered Julian, and the love-light that had illumined them both that memorable evening. Edith had not once alluded to her own clouded hopes. She seemed to have forgotten herself in her mother's griefs and mine.
"And Julian, my beloved Edith? There is a future for you, a happy one, is there not?"
"I do not expect happiness," she answered, with a sigh; "but Julian's love will gild the gloom of sorrow, and be the rainbow of my clouded days. He will return in the winter, and then perhaps he will not leave me again. I cannot quit my mother; but he can take a son's place in her desolated home. No garlands of roses will twine round my bridal hours, for they are all withered, all but the rose of Sharon, Gabriella, whose sacred bloom can never fade away. It is the only flower worth cherishing,—the only one without thorns, and without blight."
Softly withdrawing her supporting arms, she suffered me to sink back on the pillow, gave me a reviving cordial, drew the curtains, and taking up a book, seemed absorbed in its contents. I closed my eyes and appeared to sleep, that she might not suppose her narration had banished repose. I had anticipated all she uttered; but the certainty of desolation is different to the agonies of suspense. I could have borne the separation from Ernest; but that he should believe me the false, guilty wretch I had seemed to be, inflicted pangs sharper than the vulture's beak or the arrow's barb. If he had left the country, as there was every reason to suppose he had, with this conviction, he never would return; and the loneliness and dreariness of a widowhood more sad than that which death creates, would settle down darkly and heavily on my young life.
I did not blame him for the rash deed he had wrought, for it was a madman's act. When I recalled the circumstances, I did not wonder at the frantic passion that dyed his hand in blood; and yet I could not blame myself. Had I shrunk from a brother's embrace, I should have been either more or less than woman. I had yielded to a divine impulse, and could appeal to nature and Heaven for justification.
But I had sinned. I had broken the canons of the living God, and deserved a fearful chastisement. I had made unto myself an idol, and no pagan idolater ever worshipped at his unhallowed shrine with more blind devotion. I had been true to Ernest, but false to my Maker, the one great andjealousGod. I had lived but for one object, and that object was withdrawn, leaving all creation a blank.
I stood upon the lonely strand, the cold waves beating against my feet, and the bleak winds piercing through my unsheltered heart. I stretched out my arms to the wild waste of waters, in whose billows my life-boat was whelmed, and I called, but there was none to answer. I cried for help, but none came. Then I looked up to heaven, and high above the darkness of the tempest and the gloom of the deep, one star shining in solitary glory arrested my despairing gaze. I had seen it before with the eye of faith, but never beaming with such holy lustre as now, when all other lights were withdrawn.