"Sacred bride of heaven,Worthy the passion of a God."
"Sacred bride of heaven,Worthy the passion of a God."
So entirely did I harmonize with him in his preference for Grandison Place, that I was willing the time should be anticipated, for the sake of the retirement and tranquillity secured.
Madge Wildfire had returned to the city, declaring that lovers were the most selfish and insipid people in the world,—that she was tired of flirting with Ursa Major, as she called Mr. Regulus,—tired of teazing Dr. Harlowe,—tired of the country and of herself.
The night before she left, she came to me in quite a subdued mood.
"I am really sorry you are going to be married," she cried. "If I were you, I would not put on chains before I had tasted the sweets of liberty. Only think, you have not come out yet, as the protégée of the rich, the aristocratic Mrs. Linwood. What a sensation you would make in Boston next winter if you had sense enough to preserve your freedom. Ernest Linwood knows well enough what he is about, when he hastens the wedding so vehemently. He knows, if you once go into the world, you will be surrounded by admirers who may eclipse and supplant him. But I tell thee one thing, my dear creature, you will have no chance to shine as a belle, as the wife of Ernest. If he does not prove a second Bluebeard, my name is not Meg the Dauntless."
"I detest a married belle," I answered with warmth. "The woman who aims at such a distinction is false, heartless, and unprincipled. I would bless the watching love that shielded me from a name so odious."
"It is a mighty fine thing to be loved, I suppose," said Meg with a resounding laugh, "but I know nothing about it and never shall. Mamma and Mrs. Linwood are great friends, you know, or have been; and mamma thought it would be wondrous fine for young Miss Hopeful to captivate Mr. Splendidus. But he did nottake. I did not suit his delicate nerves. Well, I wish you joy, my precious soul. He loves you, there is no doubt of that. He never sees, never looks at any one else. If you speak, he is all ear; if you move, all eye. I wonder how it will be a year hence,—ha, ha!"
Her laugh grated on my nerves, but I concealed the irritation it caused, for it was useless to be angry with Meg. She must have had a heart, for she was a woman, but the avenue to it was impervious. It was still an untravelled wilderness, and bold must be the explorer who dared to penetrate its luxuriant depths.
Circumstances connected with the property bequeathed by his uncle, made it indispensable that Ernest should be in New York the coming winter; and he made arrangements to pass our first bridal season in the great empire city. He wrote to a friend resident there, to engage a house and have it furnished for our reception.
"For never," said he, "will I carry bride of mine, to make her home in a fashionable hotel. I would as soon plunge her in the roaring vortex on Norway's coast."
"And must we be separated from your mother and Edith?" I asked, trembling at the thought of being removed from Mrs. Linwood's maternal counsels and cares; "will they not share our bridal home?"
"I would have the early days of our married life sacred even from their participation," he answered, with that eloquence of the eye which no woman's heart could resist. "I would have my wife learn to rely on me alone for happiness;—to find in my boundless devotion, my unutterable love, an equivalent for all she is called upon to resign. If she cannot consent to this, no spark from heaven has kindled the flame of the altar; the sacrifice is cold, and unworthy of acceptance."
"For myself, I ask nothing, wish for nothing but your companionship," I answered, with the fervor of truth and youth, "but I was thinking of them, whom I shall rob of a son and brother so inexpressibly dear."
"We shall meet next summer in these lovely shades. We shall all be happy together once more. In the mean time, all the elegancies and luxuries that love can imagine and wealth supply shall be yours,—
"Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paintThe home to which, if love fulfils its prayers,This hand would lead thee, listen,"—
"Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paintThe home to which, if love fulfils its prayers,This hand would lead thee, listen,"—
And taking me by the hand, he led me out into the beautiful avenue in which we had so often wandered, and continued, in the words of that charming play which he had read aloud in the early days of our acquaintance, with a thrilling expression which none but himself could give—
"We'll have no friendsThat are not lovers; no ambition, saveTo excel them all in love; we'll read no booksThat are not tales of love; that we may smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And when night comes, amidst the breathless heavens,We'll guess what star shall be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightSteals through the mists of alabaster lamps,And every air be heavy with the sighsOf orange groves, and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forthI' the midst of roses!"
"We'll have no friendsThat are not lovers; no ambition, saveTo excel them all in love; we'll read no booksThat are not tales of love; that we may smileTo think how poorly eloquence of wordsTranslates the poetry of hearts like ours!And when night comes, amidst the breathless heavens,We'll guess what star shall be our home when loveBecomes immortal; while the perfumed lightSteals through the mists of alabaster lamps,And every air be heavy with the sighsOf orange groves, and music from sweet lutes,And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forthI' the midst of roses!"
"Dost thou like the picture?"
How could I help answering, in the words of the impassioned Pauline,—
"Was ever young imaginative girl wooed in strains of sweeter romance?"
Was there ever a fairer prospect of felicity, if love, pure, intense love, constitutes the happiness of wedded life?
I will not swell these pages by describing the village wonder and gossip, when it was known that the orphan girl of the old gray cottage was exalted to so splendid a destiny; nor the congratulations of friends; the delight and exultation of Dr. Harlowe, who said he had discovered it all by my pulse long before; nor the deeply interesting and characteristic scene with Mr. Regulus; nor the parting interview with Mrs. Linwood and Edith.
Yes, I will give a brief sketch of the last hour spent with Edith, the night before the wedding. We were to be married in the morning, and immediately commence our bridal journey.
Edith had never alluded to her own feelings respecting her brother's marriage, since the evening of the only misunderstanding we ever had in our sisterly intercourse; and it was a subject I could not introduce. The delicate, gauzy reserve in which she enfolded herself was as impenetrable to me as an ancient warrior's armor.
Now, when the whole household was wrapped in silence, and the lamps extinguished, and I sat in my night robe in the recess of the window, she came and sat down beside me. We could see each other's faces by the silver starlight It glittered on the tear drops in the eyes of both. I put my arms around her, and, laying my head on her bosom, poured out all the love, gratitude, and affection with which my full heart was burdened.
"Forgive me, my beloved Gabriella," she cried, "my apparent coldness and estrangement. On my knees I have asked forgiveness of my heavenly Father. With my arms round your neck, and your heart next mine, I ask forgiveness of you. Try not to think less of me for the indulgence of a too selfish and exacting spirit, but remember me as the poor little cripple, who for years found her brother's arm her strength and her stay, and learned to look up to him as the representative of Providence, as the protecting angel of her life. Only make him happy, my own dear sister, and I will yield him, not to your stronger, but your equal love. His only fault is loving you too well, in depreciating too much his own transcendent powers. You cannot help being happy withhim, with a being so noble and refined. If he ever wounds you by suspicion and jealousy, bear all, and forgive all, for the sake of his exceeding love,—for my sake, Gabriella, and for the sake of the dear Redeemer who died for love of you."
Dear, lovely, angelic Edith! noble, inestimable Mrs. Linwood!—dearly beloved home of my orphan years,—grave of my mother, farewell!
Farewell!—the bride of Ernest must not, cannot weep.
The early portion of my married life was more like a dream of heaven than a reality of earth. All, andmorethan I had ever imagined of wedded happiness, I realized. The intimate and constant companionship of such a being as Ernest, so intellectual, so refined, so highly gifted, so loving and impassioned, was a privilege beyond the common destiny of women. A hundred times I said to myself in the exultant consciousness of joy,—
"How little his mother knows him! The jealousy of the lover has yielded to the perfect confidence of the husband. Our hearts are now too closely entwined for the shadow of a cloud to pass between them. He says himself, that it would be impossible ever to doubt a love so pure and so entire as mine."
Our home was as retired as it was possible to be in the heart of a great metropolis. It was near one of those beautiful parks which in summer give such an aspect of life and purity to surrounding objects, with their grassy lawns, graceful shade trees, and fountains of silvery brightness playing in the sunshine, and diffusing such a cool, delicious atmosphere, in the midst of heat, dust, and confusion. In winter, even, these parks give inexpressible relief to the eye, and freedom to the mind, that shrinks from the compression of high brick walls, and longs for a more expanded view of the heavens than can be obtained through turreted roofs, that seem to meet as they tower.
It made but little difference to me now, for my heaven was within. The external world, of which I believed myself wholly independent, seemed but a shell enclosing the richness and fragrance of our love. The luxuries and elegancies of my own home were prized chiefly as proofs of Ernest's watchful and generous love.
The friend to whom he had written to prepare a residence, was fortunate in securing one which he believed exactly suited to his fastidious and classic taste. A gentleman of fortune had just completed and furnished an elegant establishment, when unexpected circumstances compelled him to leave his country to be absent several years.
I do not think Ernest would have fitted up our bridal home in so showy and magnificent a style; but his love for the beautiful and graceful was gratified, and he was pleased with my enthusiastic admiration and delight.
I sometimes imagined myself in an enchanted palace, when wandering through the splendid suite of apartments adorned with such oriental luxury. The gentleman whose taste had presided over the building of the mansion, had travelled all over Europe, and passed several years in the East. He had brought home with him the richest and rarest models of Eastern architecture, and fashioned his own mansion after them. Ernest had not purchased it, for the owner was not willing to sell; he was anxious, however, to secure occupants who would appreciate its elegance, and guard it from injury.
Ah! little did I think when eating my bread and milk from the china bowl bordered by flowers, when a silver spoon seemed something grand and massy in the midst of general poverty, that I should ever be the mistress of such a magnificent mansion. I had thought Grandison Place luxuriously elegant; but what was it compared to this? How shall I begin to describe it? or shall I describe it at all? I always like myself to know how to localize a friend, to know their surroundings and realities, and all that fills up the picture of their life. A friend! Have I made friends of my readers? I trust there are some who have followed the history of Gabriella Lynn with sufficient interest, to wish to learn something of her experience of the married life.
Come, then, with me, and I will devote this chapter to a palace, which might indeed fulfil the prayers of the most princely love.
This beautiful apartment, adorned with paintings and statues of the most exquisite workmanship, is a reception room, from which you enter the parlor and find yourself winding through fluted pillars of ingrained marble, from the centre of which curtains of blue and silver, sweeping back and wreathing the columns, form an arch beneath which queens might be proud to walk. The walls are glittering with silver and blue, and all the decorations of the apartment exhibit the same beautiful union. The ceiling above is painted in fresco, where cherubs, lovely as the dream of love, spread their wings of silvery tinted azure and draw their fairy bows.
Passing through this glittering colonnade into a kind of airy room, you pause on the threshold, imagining yourself in a fairy grotto. We will suppose it moonlight; for it was by moonlight I first beheld this enchanting scene. We arrived at night, and Ernest conducted me himself through a home which appeared to me more like a dream of the imagination than a creation of man. I saw thathewas surprised; that he was unprepared for such elaborate splendor. He had told his friend to spare no expense; but he was not aware that any one had introduced such Asiatic magnificence into our cities. I believe I will describe my own first impressions, instead of anticipating yours.
The mellowness of autumn still lingered in the atmosphere,—for the season of the harvest-moon is the most beautiful in the world. The glorious orb illumined the fairy grotto with a radiance as intense as the noonday sun's. It clothed the polished whiteness of the marble statues with a drapery of silver, sparkled on the fountain's tossing wreaths, converted the spray that rose from the bosom of the marble basin below into a delicate web of silver lace-work, and its beams, reflected from walls of looking-glass, multiplied, to apparent infinity, fountains, statues, trees, and flowers, till my dazzled eyes could scarcely distinguish the shadow from the substance. The air was perfumed with the delicious odor of tropic blossoms, and filled with the sweet murmurs of the gushing fountain.
"Oh! how beautiful! how enchanting!" I exclaimed, in an ecstasy of admiration. "This must be ideal. Reality never presented any thing so brilliant, so exquisite as this. Oh, Ernest, surely this is a place to dream of, not a home to live in?"
"It does, indeed," he answered, "transcend my expectations; but if it pleases your eye, Gabriella, it cannot go beyond my wishes."
"Oh yes, it delights my eye, but my heart asked nothing but you. I fear you will never know how well I love you, in the midst of such regal splendor. If you ever doubt me, Ernest, take me to that island home you once described, and you will there learn that on you, and you alone, I rely for happiness."
He believed me. I knew he did; for he drew me to his bosom, and amid a thousand endearing protestations, told me he did not believe it possible ever to doubt a love, which irradiated me at that moment, as the moon did the Fairy Grotto.
He led me around the marble basin that received the waters of the fountain, and which was margined by sea-shells, from which luxuriant flowers were gushing, and explained the beautiful figures standing so white, so "coldly sweet, so deadly fair," in the still and solemn moonlight. I knew the history of each statue as he named them, but I questioned him, that I might have the delight of hearing his charming and poetic descriptions.
"Is this a daughter of Danaus?" I asked, stopping before a young and exquisitely lovely female, holding up to the fountain an urn, through whose perforated bottom the waters seemed eternally dripping.
"It is."
"Is it Hypermestra, the only one of all the fifty who had a woman's heart, punished by her father for rescuing her husband from the awful doom which her obedient sisters so cruelly inflicted on theirs."
"I believe it is one of the savage forty-nine, who were condemned by the judges of the infernal regions to fill bottomless vessels with water, through the unending days of eternity. She does not look much like a bride of blood, does she, with that face of softly flowing contour, and eye of patient anguish? I suppose filial obedience was considered a more divine virtue than love, or the artist would not thus have beautified and idealized one of the most revolting characters in mythology. I do not like to dwell on this image. It represents woman in too detestable a light. May we not be pardoned for want of implicit faith in her angelic nature, when such examples are recorded of her perfidy and heartlessness?"
"But she is a fabulous being, Ernest."
"Fables have their origin in truth, my Gabriella. Cannot you judge, by the shadow, of the form that casts it? The mythology of Greece and Rome shows what estimate was placed on human character at the time it was written. The attributes of men and women were ascribed to gods and goddesses, and by their virtues and crimes we may judge of the moral tone of ancient society. Had there been no perfidious wives, the daughters of Danaus had never been born of the poet's brain, and embodied by the sculptor's hand. Had woman always been as true as she is fair, Venus had never risen from the foam of imagination, or floated down the tide of time in her dove-drawn car, giving to mankind an image of beauty and frailty that is difficult for him to separate, so closely are they intertwined."
"Yes," said I, reproachfully, "and had woman never been forsaken and betrayed, we should never have heard of the fair, deserted Ariadne, or the beautiful and avenging Medea. Had man never been false to his vows, we should never have been told of the jealous anger of Juno, or the poisoned garment prepared by the hapless Dejarnira. Ah! this is lovely!"
"Do you not recognize a similitude to the flower-girl of the library? This is Flora herself, whose marble hands are dripping with flowers, and whose lips, white and voiceless as they are, are wearing the sweetness and freshness of eternal youth. Do you not trace a resemblance to yourself in those pure and graceful features, which, even in marble, breathe the eloquence of love? How charmingly the moonbeams play upon her brow! how lovingly they linger on her neck of snow!"
He paused, while the murmurs of the fountain seemed to swell to supply the music of his voice. Then he passed on to a lovely Bachanter with ivy and vine wreaths on her clustering locks, to a Hebe catching crystal drops instead of nectar in her lifted cup; and then we turned and looked at all these classic figures reflected in the mural mirrors and at the myriad fountains tossing their glittering wreaths, and at the myriad basins receiving the cooling showers.
"I only regret," said Ernest, "that I had not designed all this expressly for your enjoyment; that the taste of another furnished the banquet at which your senses are now revelling."
"But I owe it all to you. You might as well sigh to be the sculptor of the statues, the Creator of the flowers. Believe me, I am sufficiently grateful. My heart could not bear a greater burden of gratitude."
"Gratitude!" he repeated, "Gabriella, as you value my love, never speak to me of gratitude. It is the last feeling I wish to inspire. It may be felt for a benefactor, a superior, but not a lover and a husband."
"But when all these characters are combined in one, what language can we use to express the full, abounding heart? Methinks mine cannot contain, even now, the emotions that swell it almost to suffocation, I am not worthy of so much happiness. It is greater than I can bear."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, and tears and smiles mingling together relieved the oppression of my grateful, blissful heart. I really felt too happy. The intensity of my joy was painful, from its excess.
"This is yours," said he, as we afterwards stood in an apartment whose vaulted ceiling, formed of ground crystal and lighted above by gas, resembled the softest lustre of moonlight. The hangings of the beds and windows were of the richest azure-colored satin, fringed with silver, which seemed the livery of the mansion.
"And this is yours," he added, lifting a damask curtain, which fell over a charming little recess that opened into a beautiful flower bed. "This is a kiosk, where you can sit in the moonlight and make garlands of poetry, which Regulus cannot wither."
"How came you so familiar with the mysteries of this enchanted palace? Is it not novel to you, as well as to me?"
"Do you not recollect that I left you at the hotel for a short time, after our arrival? I accompanied my friend hither, and received from him the clue to these magic apartments. This is a bathing-room," said he, opening one, where a marble bath and ewer, and every luxurious appliance reminded one of Eastern luxury. Even the air had a soft languor in it, as if perfumed breaths had mingled there.
"I should like to see the former mistress of this palace," said I, gazing round with a bewildered smile; "she was probably some magnificent Eastern sultana who reclined under that royal canopy, and received sherbet from the hands of kneeling slaves. She little dreamed of the rustic successor who would tread her marble halls, and revel in the luxuries prepared for her."
"She was a very elegant and intellectual woman, I am told," replied Ernest, "who accompanied her husband in his travels, and assisted him in every enterprise, by the energy of her mind and the constancy of her heart, and whose exquisite taste directed the formation of this graceful structure. She painted the frescos on the ceiling of the boudoir, and that richly tinted picture of an Italian sunset is the work of her hand. This house and its decorations are not as costly as many others in this city, but it has such an air of Asiatic magnificence it produces an illusion on the eye. I wish, myself, it was not quite so showy, but it makes such a charming contrast to the simplicity and freshness of your character I cannot wish it otherwise."
"I fear I shall be spoiled. I shall imagine myself one of those dark-eyed houris, who dwell in the bowers of paradise and welcome the souls of the brave."
"That is no inappropriate comparison," said he; "but you must not believe me an Eastern satrap, Gabriella, who dares not enter his wife's apartment without seeing the signal of admittance at the door. Here is another room opening into this; and pressing a spring, a part of the dividing walls slid back, revealing an apartment of similar dimensions, and furnished with equal elegance.
"This," added he, "was arranged by the master of the mansion for his own accommodation. Here is his library, which seems a mass of burnished gold, from the splendid binding of the books. By certain secret springs the light can be so graduated in this room, that you can vary it from the softest twilight to the full blaze of day."
"The Arabian Nights dramatized!" I exclaimed. "I fear we are walking over trap-doors, whose secret mouths are ready to yawn on the unsuspecting victim."
"Beware then, Gabriella,—I may be one of the genii, whose terrible power no mortal can evade, who can read the thoughts of the heart as easily as the printed page. How would you like to be perused so closely?"
"Would that you could read every thought of my heart, Ernest, every emotion of my soul, then you would know, what words can never express,—the height and depth of my love and devotion—I will notsaygratitude—since you reject and disown it,—but that I must ever feel. Can I ever forget the generosity, the magnanimity, which, overlooking the cloud upon my birth, has made me the sharer of your princely destiny, the mistress of a home like this?"
"You do not care for it, only as the expression of my affection; I am sure you do not," he repeated, and his dark gray eye seemed to read the inmost depths of thought.
"Oh, no! a cottage or a palace would be alike to me, provided you are near me. It seems to me now as if I should awake in the morning, and find I had been in a dream. I am not sure that you have not a magic ring on your finger that produces this illusion."
But the morning sunbeams flashed on the softly murmuring fountain, on the white polished forms of the Grecian myths, on the trailing luxuriance of the tropic blossoms. They glanced in on the glittering drapery that wreathed the marble columns, and lighted the crystal dome over my head with a mild, subdued radiance.
A boudoir which I had not seen the evening before elicited my morning admiration,—it was furnished with such exquisite elegance, and contained so many specimens of the fine arts. Two rosewood cabinets, inlaid with pearl, were filled withchefs-d'[oe]uvresfrom the hands of masters, collected in the old world. They were locked; but through the glass doors I could gaze and admire, and make them all my own. An elegant escritoire was open on the table, the only thing with which I could associate the idea of utility. Yes, there was a harp, that seemed supported by a marble cherub,—a most magnificent instrument. I sighed to think it was useless to me; but Ernest's hand would steal music from its silent strings.
And now behold me installed as mistress of this luxurious mansion, an utter stranger in the heart of a great metropolis!
It was now that I understood the reserve of Ernest's character. It was impossible that we should remain altogether strangers, living in a style which wealth only could sanction. Mr. Harland, the gentleman with whom Ernest had corresponded, moved in the circles of fashion and distinction, and he introduced his friends and acquaintances, being himself a frequent and agreeable visitor. Ernest received our guest with elegance and politeness,—these attributes were inseparable from himself,—but there was a coldness and reserve that seemed to forbid all approach to intimacy. Fearful of displeasing him, I repressed the natural frankness and social warmth of my nature, and I am sure our visitors often departed, chilled and disappointed. The parlor was lined with mirrors, and I could not turn without seeing myself reflected on every side; and not only myself, but an eye that watched my every movement, and an ear that drank in my every word. How could I feel at ease, or do justice to those powers of pleasing with which nature may have gifted me?
Sometimes, though very seldom, Ernest was not present; and then my spirits rebounded from this unnatural constraint, and I laughed and talked like other people. The youthful brightness of my feelings flashed forth, and I forgot that aclouded starpresided over my young life.
I would not give the impression that, at this time, I felt hurt at the coldness and reserve of Ernest, as exhibited in society. I was fearful of displeasing him by showing too much pleasure in what did not appear to interest him; but when the door was closed on the departing guest and he exclaimed,—
"Thank heaven! we are once more alone!"
I could not help echoing the sentiment which brought us so close to each other, and rejoiced with him that formality and restraint no longer interfered with the freedom of love and the joys of home. He never appeared so illumined with intellect, so glowing with feeling, as in moments like these; and I was flattered that a mind so brilliant, and a heart so warm, reserved their brightness and their warmth for me. If he was happy with me, and me only, how supremely blest should I be, with a companion so intellectual and fascinating! If Edith were but near, so that I could say to her occasionally, "How happy I am!" if Mrs. Linwood were with me to know that nothing had yet arisen to disturb the heaven of our wedded happiness; if excellent Dr. Harlowe could only call in once in a while, with his pleasant words and genial smiles; or kindly feeling, awkward Mr. Regulus, I should not have a wish ungratified.
It is true I sometimes wished I had something to do, but we had supernumerary servants, and if I found any employment it must have been similar to that of Jack the bean-boy, who poured his beans on the floor and then picked them up again. I was fond of sewing. But the wardrobe of a young bride is generally too well supplied; at least mine was, to admit of much exercise with the needle. I was passionately fond of reading, and of hearing Ernest read; and many an hour every day was devoted to books. But the mind, like the body, can digest only a certain quantity of food, and is oppressed by an excessive portion.
Had Ernest welcomed society, our superb parlor would have been thronged with nightly guests; but he put up bars of ceremony against such intrusion; polished silver they were, it is true, but they were felt to be heavy and strong. He never visited himself, that is, socially. He paid formal calls, as he would an inevitable tax, rejoicing when the wearisome task was over; out beyond the limits of ceremony he could not be persuaded to pass.
Gradually our evening visitors became few,—the cold season advanced, the fountain ceased to play in the grotto, and the beautiful flowers were inclosed in the green-house.
Our rooms were warmed by furnaces below, which diffused a summer temperature through the house. In mine, the heat came up through an exquisite Etruscan vase, covered with flowers, which seemed to emit odor as well as warmth, and threw the illusion of spring over the dullness and gloom of winter. But I missed the glowing hearth of Mrs. Linwood, the brightness and heartiness of her winter fireside.
I never shall forget how I started with horror, when I was conscious of a feeling ofennui, even in the presence of Ernest. It was not possible I should be weary of the joys of heaven, if I were capable of sighing in my own Eden bower. I tried to banish the impression; itWOULDreturn, and with it self-reproach and shame.
If Ernest had not been lifted by wealth above the necessity of exertion; had he been obliged to exercise the talents with which he was so liberally endowed for his own support and the benefit of mankind; had he some profession which compelled him to mingle in the world, till the too exquisite edge of his sensibilities were blunted by contact with firmer, rougher natures, what a blessing it would have been! With what pride would I have seen him go forth to his daily duties, sure that he was imparting and receiving good. With what rapture would I have welcomed his returning footstep!
Oh! had he been apoorman, he would have been agreatman. He was not obliged to toil, either physically or mentally; and indolence is born of luxury, and morbid sensibility luxuriates in the lap of indolence. Forms of beauty and grandeur wait in the marble quarry for the hand of genius and skill. Ingots of gold sleep in the mine, till the explorer fathoms its depths and brings to light the hidden treasures. Labor is the slave of the lamp of life, who alone keeps its flame from waxing dim. When a child, I looked upon poverty as man's greatest curse; but I now thought differently. To feel that every wish is gratified, every want supplied, is almost as dreary as to indulge the wish, and experience the want, without the means of satisfying the cravings of one or the urgency of the other.
Had Ernest been a poor man, he would not have had time to think unceasingly of me. His mind would have been occupied with sterner thoughts and more exalted cares. But rich as he was, I longed to see him live for something nobler than personal enjoyment, to know that he possessed a higher aim than love for me. I did not feel worthy to fill the capacities of that noble heart. I wanted him to love me less, that I might have something more to desire.
"Of what are you thinking so deeply, sweet wife?" he asked, when I had been unconsciously indulging in a long, deep reverie. "What great subject knits so severely that fair young brow?" he repeated, sitting by me, and taking my hand in his.
I blushed, for my thoughts were making bold excursions.
"I was thinking," I answered, looking bravely in his face, "what a blessed thing it must be to do good, to have the will as well as the power to bless mankind."
"Tell me what scheme of benevolence my little philanthropist is forming. What mighty engine would she set in motion to benefit her species?"
"I was thinking how happy a person must feel, who was able to establish an asylum for the blind or the insane, a hospital for the sick, or a home for the orphan. I was thinking how delightful it would be to go out into the byways of poverty, the abodes of sickness and want, and bid their inmates follow me, where comfort and ease and plenty awaited them. I was thinking, if I were a man, how I would love to be called the friend and benefactor of mankind; but, being a woman, how proud and happy I should be to follow in the footsteps of such a good and glorious being, and hear the blessings bestowed upon his name."
I spoke with earnestness, and my cheeks glowed with enthusiasm. I felt the clasp of his hand tighten as he drew me closer to his side.
"You have been thinking," he said, in his peculiarly grave, melodious accents, "that I am leading a self-indulging, too luxurious life?"
"Not you—not you alone, dearest Ernest; but both of us," I cried, feeling a righteous boldness, I did not dream that I possessed. "Do not the purple and the fine linen of luxury enervate the limbs which they clothe? Is there no starving Lazarus, who may rebuke us hereafter for the sumptuous fare over which we have revelled? I know how generous, how compassionate you are; how ready you are to relieve the sufferings brought before your eye; but how little we witness here! how few opportunities we have of doing good! Ought they not to be sought? May they not be found everywhere in this great thoroughfare of humanity?"
"You shall find my purse as deep as your charities, my lovely monitress," he answered, while his countenance beamed with approbation. "My bounty as boundless as your desires. But, in a great city like this, it is difficult to distinguish between willing degradation and meritorious poverty. You could not go into the squalid dens of want and sin, without soiling the whiteness of your spirit, by familiarity with scenes which I would not have you conscious of passing in the world. There are those who go about as missionaries of good among the lowest dregs of the populace, whom you can employ as agents for your bounty. There are benevolent associations, through which your charities can flow in full and refreshing streams. Remember, I place no limits to your generosities. As to your magnificent plans of establishing asylums and public institutions for the lame, the halt, and the blind, perhaps my single means might not be able to accomplish them,—delightful as it would be to have an angel following in my footsteps, and binding up the wounds of suffering humanity."
He smiled with radiant good-humor at my Quixotic schemes. Then he told me, that since he had been in the city he had given thousands to the charitable associations which spread in great lifegiving veins through every part of the metropolis.
"You think I am living in vain, my Gabriella," he said, rising and walking the length of the splendid apartment and again returning, "because I do not have my allotted daily task to perform; because I do not go forth, like the lawyer, with a green bag under my arm; like the minister, with a sermon in my pocket; or the doctor, with powders and pills. If necessity imposed such tasks on me, I suppose I should perform them with as good a grace as the rest; but surely it would ill become me to enter the lists with my needier brethren, and take the bread from their desiring lips. Every profession is crowded. Even woman is pressing into the throng, and claiming precedence of man, in the great struggle of life. It seems to me, that it is the duty of those on whom fortune has lavished her gifts, to step aside and give room to others, who are less liberally endowed. Wemaylive in luxury; but by so doing, our wealth is scattered among the multitude, the useful arts are encouraged, and much is done for the establishment of that golden mean, which reason and philosophy have so long labored to secure."
As he thus spoke calmly, yet energetically, moving back and forth under the arches of glittering azure, his pale, transparent complexion lighted up glowingly. My eyes followed him with exulting affection. I wondered at the presumption of which I had been guilty. He had been doing good in secret, while I imagined him forgetful of the sacred legacy, left by Christ to the rich. I had wronged him in thought, and I told him so.
"You asked me of what I was thinking," I said, "and you draw my thoughts from me as by magic. I have not told you all.Ido not sigh for other society; but I fear you will become weary of mine."
"Do we ever weary of moonlight, or the sweet, fresh air of heaven? No, Gabriella; remain just as you are, ingenuous, confiding, and true, and I desire no other companionship. You so entirely fill my heart, there is no room for more. You never have had, never will have a rival. You have a power over me, such as woman seldom, exercises over man. Love, with most men, is the pastime and gladdener of life; with me it is life itself. A fearful responsibility is resting on you, my own, dear bride; but do not tremble. I do not think it is possible for you to deceive me, for you are truth itself. I begin to think you have changed my nature, and inspired me with trust and confidence in all mankind."
I did not make any professions, any promises, in answer to his avowal; but if ever a fervent prayer rose from the human heart, it ascended from mine, that I might prove worthy of this trust, that I might preserve it unblemished, with a constant reference to the eye that cannot be deceived, and the judgment that cannot err.
The first misfortune of my married life, came in the person of Margaret Melville. She burst into the boudoir one morning like a young tornado, seizing me in her strong arms, and giving me a shower of kisses, before I had time to recover from my astonishment.
Ernest and myself were seated side by side by the escritoire. He was reading,—I was writing to Edith, little dreaming of the interruption at hand.
"My dear creature," she exclaimed, with one of her inimitable ringing laughs, "howdoyoudo? You didn't think of seeing me, I know you didn't. Where did I come from? I dropped down from the upper regions,—you do not believe that. Well, I came with a party of friends, who wanted me to keep them alive. They are stopping at the Astor House. By the way, my trunks are there,—you may send for them as soon as you please. (Her trunks! she had come for a long visit, then!) There is my bonnet, mantilla, and gloves,—hereIam, body and soul,—what a glorious lounge,—good old Cr[oe]sus, what a palace you are in,—I never saw any thing so magnificent! Why, this is worth getting married for! If I ever marry, it shall be to a rich man, and one who will let me do just as I please, too."
Ernest in vain endeavored to conceal his vexation at this unexpected innovation on the elegant quietude and romantic seclusion of our home. His countenance expressed it but too plainly, and Margaret, careless as she was, must have observed it. It did not appear to disconcert her, however. She had not waited for an invitation,—she did not trouble herself about a welcome. She had come for her own amusement, and provided that was secured, she cared not for our gratification.
I can hardly explain my own feelings. I always dreaded coming in contact with her rudeness; there was no sympathy in our natures, and yet I experienced a sensation of relief while listening to her bubbling and effervescent nonsense. My mind had been kept on so high a tone, there was a strain, a tension, of which I was hardly conscious till the bowstring was slackened. Besides, she was associated with the recollections of Grandison Place,—she was a young person of my own sex, and she could talk to me of Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and the friends of my rural life. So I tried to become reconciled to the visitation, and to do the honors of a hostess with as good a grace as possible.
Ernest took refuge in the library from her wild rattling, and then she poured into my ear the idle gossip she had heard the evening before.
"It never will do," she cried, catching a pair of scissors from my work-box, and twirling them on the ends of her fingers at the imminent risk of their flying into my eyes,—"you must put a stop to this Darby and Joan way of living,—you will be the byword of the fashionable world,—I heard several gentlemen talking about you last night. They said your husband was so exclusive and jealous he would not let the sun look upon you if he could help it,—that he had the house lighted through the roof, so that no one could peep at you through the windows. Oh! I cannot repeat half the ridiculous things they said, but I am sure your ears must have burned from the compliments they paid you, at least those who have had the good-luck to catch a glimpse of your face. They all agreed that Ernest was a frightful ogre, who ought to be put in a boiling cauldron, for immuring you so closely,—I am going to tell him so."
"Don't, Margaret, don't! If you have any regard for my feelings, don't, I entreat you, ever repeat one word of this unmeaning gossip to him. He is so peculiarly sensitive, he would shrink still more from social intercourse. What a shame it is to talk of him in this manner. I am sure I have as much liberty as I wish. He is ready to gratify every desire of my heart He has made me the happiest of human beings."
"Oh! I know all that, of course. Who would not be happy in such a palace as this?"
"It is not the splendor with which he has surrounded me," I answered, gravely, "but the love which is my earthly Providence, which constitutes my felicity. You may tell thesebusy idlers, who are so interested in my domestic happiness, that I thank my husband for excluding me from companions so inferior to himself,—so incapable of appreciating the purity and elevation of his character."
"Well, my precious soul, don't be angry with them. You are a jewel of a wife, and I dare say he is a diamond of a husband; but you cannot stop peoples' tongues. Theywilltalk when folks set themselves up as exclusives. But let me tell you one thing, my pretty creature!—I am not going to be shut up in a cage while I am here, I assure you. I am determined to see all the lions; go to all fashionable places of amusement, all attractive exhibitions, theatres, concerts, panoramas, every thing that promises the least particle of enjoyment. I shall parade Broadway, frequent Stewart's marble palace, and make myself the belle of the city. And you are to go with me, my dear,—for am I not your guest, and are you not bound to minister to my gratification? As for your ogre, he may go or stay, just as he pleases. There will be plenty who will be glad enough to take his place."
I did not expect that she would have the audacity to say this to Ernest; but she did. I had never asked him to take me to places of public amusement, because I knew he did not wish it. Sometimes, when I saw in the morning papers that a celebrated actor was to appear in a fine drama, my heart throbbed with momentary desire, and my lips opened to express it. But delicacy and pride always restrained its expression. I waited for him to say,—
"Gabriella, would you like to go?"
The morning after her arrival she ransacked the papers, and fastening on the column devoted to amusements, read its contents aloud, to the evident annoyance of Ernest.
"Niblo's Garden, the inimitable Ravels—La Fête champétre,—dancing on the tight-rope, etc. Yes, that's it. We will go there to-night, Gabriella. I have been dying to see the Ravels. Cousin Ernest,—you did not know that you were my cousin, did you?—but you are. Our mothers have been climbing the genealogical tree, and discovered our collateral branches. Cousin Ernest, go and get us tickets before the best seats are secured. What an unpromising countenance! Never mind. Mr. Harland said he would be only too happy to attend Gabriella and myself to any place of amusement or party of pleasure. You are not obliged to go, unless you choose. Is he, Gabriella?"
"I certainly should not think of going without him," I answered, vexed to discover how much I really wished to go.
"But you wish to go,—you know you do. Poor, dear little soul! You have never been anywhere,—you have seen nothing,—you live as close and demure as a church mouse,—while this man-monster, who has nothing in the universe to do, from morning till night, but wait upon you and contribute to your gratification, keeps you at home, like a bird in a cage, just to look at and admire. It is too selfish. Ifyouwill not tell him so,Iwill. He shall hear the truth from somebody."
"Margaret!" I said, frightened at the pale anger of Ernest's countenance.
"You dare not look me in the face and say that you do not wish to go, Gabriella? You know you dare not."
"I desire nothing contrary to my husband's wishes."
"You are a little simpleton, then,—and I don't care what people say. It is a sin to encourage him in such selfishness and despotism."
She laughed, but her lips curled with scorn.
Ernest took up a pearl paper-cutter from the table, and bent it, till it broke like glass in his fingers. He did not know what he was doing. Madge only laughed the louder. She enjoyed his anger and my trepidation.
"A pretty thing to make a scene of!" she exclaimed. "Here I come all the way from Boston to make you a visit,—expecting you would do every thing to make me happy, as other folks do, when friends visit them. I propose a quiet, respectable amusement, in my own frank, go-ahead way,—and lo!—my lord frowns, and my lady trembles, and both, occupied in watching each other's emotions, forget they have a guest to entertain, as well as a friend to gratify."
"You might wait till I have refused to accompany you, Miss Melville," said Ernest, in a cold, calm voice. "You know me incapable of such rudeness. But I cannot allow even a lady to make such unpardonable allusions to my domestic feelings and conduct. If a man cannot find a sanctuary from insult in his own home, he may well bar his doors against intrusion, and if he has the spirit of a man, he will."
"She is only jesting," said I, with a beseeching glance. "You know Madge of old,—she never says any thing she really thinks. How can you be excited by any remarks of hers?"
"Cousin Ernest," cried Madge, while thelaughing devilin her great black eyes tried to shrink into a hiding-place, "have you not manliness to forgive me, when the rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful?"
She held out her hand with an ardent desire for reconciliation. She found she had a spirit to contend with, stronger than she imagined; and for the moment she was subdued.
"Not your mother, Margaret," replied Ernest, taking the offered hand with a better grace than I anticipated. "She is gentle and womanly, like my own. I know not whence you derived your wickedness."
"It is all original. I claim the sole credit of it. Father and mother both saints. I am a moral tangent, flying off between them. Well, we are friends again; are we not?"
"We are at peace," he answered. "You know the conditions, now; and I trust will respect them."
"We are all going to Niblo's," she cried eagerly; "that is one condition."
"Certainly," he answered; and he could not help smiling at the adroitness with which she changed positions with him.
"Will you really like to go, Gabriella?" he asked, turning to me; and his countenance beamed with all its wonted tenderness.
"Oh, yes, indeed I will. I am sure it will be delightful."
"And have you ever desired to partake of pleasures, without telling me of your wishes?"
"I do not know that I can call the transient emotion I have felt, a desire," I answered; blushing that I had ever cherished thoughts which I was unwilling to disclose. "I believe curiosity is natural to youth and inexperience."
"Perfect love casteth out fear, Gabriella. You must promise to tell me every wish of your heart; and be assured, if consistent with reason, it shall be gratified."
Delighted at so pleasant a termination to so inauspicious a beginning, I looked forward to the evening's entertainment with bright and elastic spirits. Once, as my eye rested on the fragments of pearl, I sighed to think how easily the pearls of sensibility, as well as all the frail and delicate treasures of life, might be crushed by the hand of passion.
I was surprised, when I found myself in a lofty dome, brilliantly illuminated by gas, instead of the ample flower-garden my imagination had described. I hardly know what idea I had formed; but I expected to be seated in the open air, in the midst of blossoming plants, and singing birds, and trees, on whose branches variegated lamps were burning. Ernest smiled when I told him of my disappointment.
"So it is with the illusions of life," said he. "They all pass away. The garden which you passed before the entrance, has given its name to the place; and even that, the encroaching steps of business will trample on."
Mr. Harland escorted Meg, who was in exuberant spirits, and as usual attracted the public gaze by her dashing and reckless demeanor. Conspicuous, from her superior height, her large, roving black eyes, and her opera cloak of brilliant cherry color, I felt sheltered from observation in her vicinity, and hoped that Ernest would find I could mingle in public scenes without drawing any peculiar attention. Indeed, I was so absorbed by the graceful and expressive pantomime, the novelty and variety of the scenic decorations, that I thought not where I was, or who I was. To city dwellers, a description of these would be as unnecessary as uninteresting; but perhaps some young country girl, as inexperienced as myself in fashionable amusements, may like to follow my glowing impressions.
One scene I remember, which had on me the effect of enchantment.
The stage represented one of those rural fêtes, where the peasantry of France gather on the village green, to mingle in the exhilarating dance. An aged couple came forward, hand in hand, in coarse grey overcoats, wooden sabots, and flapped hats, fastened by gray handkerchiefs under their chins. Two tight ropes were stretched parallel to each other, about eight or ten feet above the stage, and extended over the parquette. A light ladder rested against them, on each side. The aged couple tottered to the ladder, and attempted to ascend; but, at the first step, they fell and rolled on the ground.
"Poor creatures!" said I, trembling for their safety. "Why will they make such a ridiculous attempt? Why will not some of the bystanders prevent them, instead of urging them with such exulting shouts?"
"They deserve to suffer for their folly," answered Ernest, laughing. "Age should not ape the agility of youth. Perhaps they will do better than you anticipate."
After repeated attempts and failures, they stood, balancing themselves painfully on the ropes, clinging to each other's hands, and apparently trembling with terror.
"Theywillfall!" I exclaimed, catching hold of Ernest's arm, and covering my eyes. "I cannot bear to look at them. There! how dreadfully they stagger."
Again I covered my eyes, resolved to shut out the catastrophe of their broken necks and mangled limbs,—when thunders of acclamation shook the house; and, looking up, I beheld a transformation that seemed supernatural. The old great-coats, clumsy sabots, and hats, were scattered to the ground; and two youthful figures, glittering in white and silver, light and graceful as "feathered Mercuries," stood, hand in hand, poised on one foot, on the tight-drawn ropes. They danced. I never realized before the music of motion. Now, they floated downwards like softly rolling clouds; then vaulted upwards like two white-winged birds, with sunbeams shining on their plumage. A bright, fearless smile illumined their countenances; their dark, waving locks shone in the dazzling light.
Ernest seemed to enjoy my rapture. "I take more pleasure," he said, "watching your vivid emotions, than in witnessing this wonderfully graceful exhibition. What a perfect child of nature you are, Gabriella. You should thank me for keeping you somewhat aloof from the fascinations of the world. It is only in the shade, that the dew remains on the flower."
I do not think one glance of mine had wandered from the stage, save to meet the eye of Ernest. We sat in the second row of boxes, about half-way distant from the stage and the centre. I knew that every seat was crowded, but I did not observe the occupants. Meg, who cared as much about the audience as the performers, kept her opera-glass busy in gazing on those who were remote, and her own bold, magnificent eyes in examining those in her vicinity.
"Gabriella!" she whispered, "do look at that gentleman in the next box, one seat in advance of us. He has been gazing at you for an hour steadily. Do you know him?"
I shook my head, and made a motion, enjoining silence. I did not think Ernest had heard her, and I did not wish his attention directed towards an impertinence of this kind. It would make him angry, and he seemed to have enjoyed the evening.
"Why don't you look?" again whispered Meg. "He may leave the box. He is certainly trying to magnetize you."
Impelled by growing curiosity, I glanced in the direction she indicated, and met the unreceding gaze of a pair of dark, intense eyes, that seemed to burn in their sockets. Their owner was a gentleman, who appeared about forty years of age, of a very striking figure, and features originally handsome, but wearing the unmistakable stamp of dissipation. I blushed at his bold and steadfast scrutiny, and drew involuntarily nearer to Ernest. Ernest observed his undaunted stare, and his brows contracted over his flashing eyes. The gentleman, perceiving this, turned towards the stage, and seemed absorbed in admiration of the graceful and inimitable Ravels.
"Scoundrel!" muttered Ernest, leaning forward so as to interpose a barrier to his insolence.
"Did you speak to me, cousin Ernest?" asked Meg, with affected simplicity.
He made no reply; and as the stranger did not turn again, I became so interested in the performance as to forget his bold ness. During the interlude between the plays, I begged Ernest to get me a glass of water. Meg made the same request of Mr. Harland, and for a short time we were left alone.
The moment the gentlemen had left the box, the stranger rose and stepped into the box behind him, which brought him on a line with us, and close to me, as I was seated next to the partition. I did not look him in the face; but I could not help being conscious of his movements, and of the probing gaze he again fixed on me. I wished I had not asked for the water. I could have borne the faintness and oppression caused by the odor of the gas better than that dark, unshrinking glance. I dreaded the anger of Ernest on his return. I feared he would openly resent an insolence so publicly and perseveringly displayed. We were side by side, with only the low partition of the boxes between us, so near that I felt his burning breath on my cheek,—a breath in which the strong perfume of orris-root could not overcome the fumes of the narcotic weed. I tried to move nearer Meg, but her back was partially turned to me, in the act of conversing with some gentleman who had just entered the box, and she was planted on her seat firm as a marble statue.
The stranger's hand rested on the partition, and a note fell into my lap.
"Conceal this from your husband," said a low, quick voice, scarcely above a whisper, "or his life shall be the forfeit as well as mine."
As he spoke, he lifted his right hand, exhibiting a miniature in its palm, in golden setting. One moment it flashed on my gaze, then vanished, but that glance was enough. I recognized the lovely features of my mother, though blooming with youth, and beaming with hope and joy.
To snatch up the note and hide it in my bosom, was an act as instinctive as the beating of my heart. It was my father, then, from whose scorching gaze I had been shrinking with such unutterable dread and loathing,—the being whom she had once so idolatrously loved, whom in spite of her wrongs she continued to love,—the being who had destroyed her peace, broken her heart, and laid her in a premature grave—the being whom her dying lips commanded me to forgive, whom her prophetic dream warned me to protect from unknown danger. My father! I had imagined him dead, so many years had elapsed since my mother's flight. I had thought of him as a fabulous being. I dreamed not of encountering him, and if I had, I should have felt secure, for how could he recognizeme? My father! cold and sick I turned away, shivering with indescribable apprehension. He had destroyed my mother,—he had come to destroy me. That secret note,—that note which I was to conceal, or meet so awful a penalty, seemed to scorch the bosom that throbbed wildly against its folds.
All that I have described occurred in the space of a few moments. Before Ernest returned, the stranger had resumed his seat,—(I cannot, oh, I cannot call himfather,)—and there was no apparent cause for my unconquerable emotion. Meg, who was laughing and talking with her companions, had observed nothing. The secret was safe, on which I was told two lives depended. Two,—I might saythree, since one was the life of Ernest.
I attempted to take the glass of water, but my hand shook so I could not hold it. I dared not look in the face of Ernest, lest he should read in mine all that had occurred.
"What is the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "Gabriella, has any thing alarmed you during my absence?"
"The odor of the gas sickens me," I answered, evading the question; "if you are willing, I should like to return home."
"You seem strangely affected in crowds," said he, in an undertone, and bending on me a keen, searching glance. "I remember on commencement day you were similarly agitated."
"I do indeed seem destined to suffer on such occasions," I answered, a sharp pang darting through my heart. I read suspicion in his altered countenance. The flower leaves were beginning to wither. "If Miss Melville is willing, I should like to return."
"What is that you say about going home?" cried Meg, turning quickly round. "What in the world is this, Gabriella? You look as if you had seen a ghost!"
"Whatever she has seen, it is probable you have been equally favored, Miss Melville, since you were together," said Ernest, in the same cold undertone. The orchestra was playing a magnificent overture, there was laughter and merriment around us, so the conversation in our box was not over-heard.
"I!" exclaimed Meg. "I have not seen any thing but one sociable looking neighbor. I should not wonder if his eyes had blistered her face, they have been glowing on her so intensely."
As she raised her voice, the stranger turned his head, and again I met them,—those strange, basilisk eyes. They seemed to drink my heart's blood. It is scarcely metaphorical to say so, for every glance left a cold, deadly feeling behind.
"Come, Gabriella," said Ernest; "if Miss Melville wishes it, she can remain with Mr. Harland. I will send back the carriage for them."
"To be sure I wish it," cried Meg. "They say the best part of the amusement is to come. Gabriella has a poor opinion of my nursing, so I will not cast my pearls away. I am gladIhave not any nerves, my dear little sensitive plant. Itisa terrible thing to be too attractive to venture abroad!"
The latter part of the sentence was uttered in a whisper, while suppressed laughter convulsed her frame.
Ernest did not open his lips as he conducted me from the theatre to the carriage, and not a word was spoken during our homeward ride. The rattling of the pavements was a relief to the cold silence. Instead of occupying the same seat with me, Ernest took the one opposite; and as we passed the street lamps they flashed on his face, and it seemed that of a statue, so cold and impressive it looked. What did he suspect? What had I done to cause this deep displeasure? He knew not of the note which I had concealed, of the words which still hissed in my ears. The bold gaze of the stranger would naturally excite his anger against him, but why should it estrange him from me? I had yet to learn the wiles and the madness of his bosom enemy.
When I took his hand, as he assisted me from the carriage I started, for it was as chill as ice, and the fingers, usually so pliant and gentle in their fold, were inflexible as marble. I thought I should have fallen to the pavement; but exerting all the resolution of which I was mistress, I entered the house, and passed under the dim glitter of the silvery drapery into my own apartment.
I had barely strength to reach the sofa, on which I sunk in a state of utter exhaustion. I feared I was going to faint, and then they would loosen my dress and discover the fatal note.
"Wine!" said I to the chambermaid, who was folding my opera cloak, which I had dropped on the floor; "give me wine. I am faint."
I remembered the red wine which Dr. Harlowe gave me, after my midnight run through the dark woods, and how it infused new life into my sinking frame. Since then I had been afraid to drink it, for the doctor had laughingly assured me, that it had intoxicated, while it sustained. Now, I wanted strength and courage, and it came to me, after swallowing the glowing draught. I lifted my head, and met the cold glance of Ernest without shivering. I dared to speak and ask him the cause of his anger.
"The cause!" repeated he, his eyes kindling with passion. "Who was the bold libertine, before whose unlicensed gaze you blushed and trembled, not with indignation, such as a pure and innocent woman ought to feel; but with the bashful confusion the veteranrouédelights to behold? Who was this man, whose presence caused you such overpowering emotion, and who exchanged with you glances of such mysterious meaning? Tell me, for Iwillknow."
Oh that I had dared to answer, "He is my father. Covered with shame and humiliation, I acknowledge my parentage, which makes me so unworthy to bear your unsullied name. My darkened spirit would hide itself behind a cloud, to escape the villain whom nature disowns and reason abhors." But, unknowing the contents of the mysterious note, unknowing the consequences to himself which might result from its disclosure, remembering the injunction of my dying mother, to be to him a guardian angel in the hour of danger,—I could not save myself from blame by revealing the truth. I could not stain my lips with a falsehood.
"I never saw that man before," I replied. "Most husbands would think modest confusion more becoming in a wife, than the indignation which he usually deems it his own prerogative to exhibit. If I have been insulted, methinks you should wreak your vengeance on the offender, instead of me,—the innocent sufferer. It would be more manly."
"Would you have had me make the theatre a scene of strife and bloodshed?" he exclaimed.
"No! neither would I have you bring warring passions into the peaceful bosom of your own home."
"Is this you?" he cried, looking me sternly and sorrowfully in the face. "Is this the gentle and tender Gabriella, who speaks in such a tone of bitterness and scorn?"
"I did not know that I spoke bitterly!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Ernest, you have roused in me a spirit of resistance I tremble to feel! You madden me by your reproaches! You wrong me by your suspicions! I meant to be gentle and forbearing; but the worm will writhe under the foot that grinds it into dust. Alas! how little we know ourselves!"
With anguish that cannot be described, I clasped my hands tightly over my heart, that ached with intolerable pangs. I had lost him,—lost his love,—lost his confidence. Had I seen him in his grave, I could scarcely have felt more utter desolation.
"I told you what I was," he cried, the pale severity of his countenance changing to the most stormy agitation. "I told you that the cloud which hung over my cradle would follow me to the grave; that suspicion and jealousy were the twin-born phantoms of my soul. Why, then, rash and blind, have you committed your happiness into my keeping? You were warned, and yet you hastened to your doom."
"Because I believed that you loved me; because I loved and trusted, with a love and faith more deep and strong than woman ever knew."
"And I have destroyed them. I knew it would be so. I knew that I would prove a faithless guardian to a charge too dear. Gabriella, I am a wretch,—deserving your hatred and indignation. I have insulted your innocence, by suspicions I should blush to admit. Love, too strong for reason, converts me at times into a madman. I do not ask you to forgive me; but if you could conceive of the agonies I endure, you would pity me, were I your direst foe."
Remorse, sorrow, tenderness, and love, all swept over his countenance, and gave pathos to his voice. I rose and sprang to his arms, that opened to receive me, and I clung to his neck, and wept upon his bosom, till it seemed that my life would dissolve itself in tears. Oh! it seemed that I had leaped over a yawning abyss to reach him, that I had found him just as I was losing him for ever. I was once more in the banqueting-house of joy, and "his banner over me was love."
"Never again, my husband, never close your heart against me. I have no other home, no other refuge, no other world, than your arms."
"You have forgiven me too soon, my Gabriella. You should impose upon me some penalty equal to the offence, if such indeed there be. Oh! most willingly would I cut off the hand so tenderly clasped in yours and cast it into the flames, if by so doing I could destroy the fiend who tempts me to suspect fidelity, worthy of eternal trust. You think I give myself up without a struggle to the demon passion, in whose grasp you have seen me writhing; but you know not, dream not, how I wrestle with it in secret, and what prayers I send up to God for deliverance. It seems impossible now that I should ever doubt, ever wrong you again, and yet I dare not promise. Oh! I dare not promise; for when the whirlwind of passion rises, I know not what I do."
Had I not been conscious that I was concealing something from him, that while he was restoring to me his confidence, I was deceiving him, I should have been perfectly happy in this hour of reconciliation. But as he again and again clasped me to his bosom, and lavished upon me the tenderest caresses, I involuntarily shrunk from the pressure, lest he should feel the note, which seemed to flutter, so quick and loud my heart beat against it.
"We are neither of us fit for the fashionable world, my Gabriella," said he; "we have hearts and souls fitted for a purer, holier atmosphere than the one we now breathe. If we had some 'bright little isle of our own,' where we were safe from jarring contact with ruder natures, remote from the social disturbances which interrupt the harmony of life, where we could live for love and God, then, my Gabriella, I would not envy the angels around the throne. No scene like this to-night would ever mar the heaven of our wedded bliss."
Ernest did not know himself. Even in Crusoe's desert isle, if the print of human footsteps were discovered on the sand, and had he flown to the uttermost parts of the earth, the phantom created by his own diseased imagination would have pursued him like the giant form that haunted from pole to pole the unhappy Frankenstein. Man cannot escape from his own passions; and in solitude their waves beat against his bosom, like the eternal dashing of the tide, scarcely perceived amidst the active sounds of day, but roaring and thundering in the deep stillness of the midnight hour.
"We were happy here before Margaret came," I answered; "happy as it was possible for mortals to be. How strange that she should have come unasked, remain unurged, without dreaming of the possibility of her being otherwise than a welcome guest!"
"There should be laws to prevent households from such intrusions," said Ernest, with warmth. "I consider such persons as great offenders against the peace of society as the midnight robber or the lurking assassin. Margaret Melville cares for nothing but her own gratification. A contemptible love of fun and frolic is the ruling passion of her life. How false, how artificial is that system where there is no redress for encroachments of this kind! Were I to act honestly and as I ought, I should say to her at once, 'leave us,—your presence is intolerable,—there is no more affinity between us than between glass and brass.' But what would my mother say? What would the world say? What would you say, my own dear wife, who desire her departure even as I do myself?"
"I should be very much shocked, of course. If she had the least sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling, she would read all this in your countenance and manners. I often fear she will perceive in mine, the repulsion I cannot help experiencing. For your mother's sake I wish to be kind to Margaret."
"Do you know, Gabriella, she once wished me to think of her as a wife? That was before her character was formed, however,—when its wild, untamable elements revelled in the morning freedom of girlhood, and reason and judgment were not expected to exert their restraining influence. Think of such an union, my flower-girl, my Mimosa. Do I deserve quite so severe a punishment?"
"You would have lived in a perpetual fever of jealousy, or a state of open anarchy. There would have been some memorable scenes in your diary, I am certain."
"Jealousy! The idea of being jealous of such a being as Margaret! The 'rhinoceran bear' might inspire the passion as soon. No, Gabriella, I do not believe I could be jealous of another woman in the world, for I cannot conceive of the possibility of my ever loving another; and the intensity of my love creates a trembling fear, that a treasure so inestimable, so unspeakably dear, may be snatched from my arms. It is not so much distrust of you, as myself. I fear the casket is not worthy of the jewel it enshrines."
"Be just to yourself, Ernest, and then you will be just to all mankind."
"The truth is, Gabriella, I have no self-esteem. A celebrated German phrenologist examined my head, and pronounced it decidedly deficient in the swelling organ of self-appreciation."
He took my hand and placed it on his head, amid his soft, luxuriant dark hair, and it certainly met no elevation. I was not skilled in the science of phrenology, and there might be a defect in the formation of his head; but on his noble brow, it seemed to me that "every God had set its seal," and left the impress of his own divinity.
We started, for the steps of Madge were heard rushing up the marble stairs, and the sound of her laugh swept before her, and pressed against the door like a strong gale.
Oh Madge! that any one should ever have thought of you as the wife of Ernest.