It was not till the next morning that I dared to read the contents of the note. It was in the magnificent bathing-room, on whose retirement no one ever intruded, that I perused these pencilled lines, evidently written with a hasty and agitated hand.
"Can it be that I have found a daughter? Yes! in those lovely features I trace the living semblance of my beloved Rosalie. Where is she, my child? Where is your angel mother, whom I have sought sorrowing so many years? They tell me that you are married,—that it is your husband who watches you with such jealous scrutiny. He must not know who I am. I am a reckless, desperate man. It would be dangerous to us both to meet. Guard my secret as you expect to find your grave peaceful, your eternity free from remorse. When can I see you alone? Where can I meet you? I am in danger, distress,—ruin and death are hanging over me,—I must flee from the city; but I must see you, my child, my sweet, my darling Gabriella. I must learn the fate of my lost Rosalie.
"The curtain falls,—I dare not write more. Walk in the —— Park to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, where I will wait your coming. Come alone,—I ask only a few moments. A father pleads with his child! As you hope for an answer to your dying prayers, come, child of my Rosalie,—child of my own sad heart."
Once,—twice,—thrice I read these lines,—the death-warrant of my wedded peace. How could I resist so solemn an appeal, without violating the commands of a dying mother? How could I meet him, without incurring the displeasure of my husband? What possibility was there of my leaving home alone, when Ernest scarcely ever left me; when, after his return, if he chanced to go out, he always asked me how I had passed the time of his absence? How could I preserve outward composure, with such a secret burning in my heart? A sigh, involuntarily breathed,—a tear, forcing its way beneath the quivering lash, would expose me to suspicion and distress. What could I, should I do? I was alone, now; and I yielded momentarily to an agony of apprehension, that almost drove me mad. On one side, a guilty, ruined parent; on the other, a jealous husband, whose anger was to me a consuming fire. No, no; I could never expose myself again to that. I trembled at the recollection of those pale, inflexible features, and that eye of stormy splendor. The lightning bolt was less terrible and scathing. Yet, to turn a deaf ear to a father's prayer; to disregard a mother's injunction; to incur, perhaps, the guilt of parricide; to hazard the judgments of the Almighty;—how awful the alternative!
I sank down on my knees, and laid my head on the marble slab on which I had been seated. I tried to pray; but hysterical sobs choked my words.
"Have pity upon me, O my heavenly Father!" at length I exclaimed, raising my clasped hands to heaven. "Have pity upon me, and direct me in the right path. Give me courage to do right, and leave the result unto Thee. I float on a stormy current, without pilot or helm. I sink beneath the whelming billows. Help, Lord! or I perish!"
Before I rose from my knees, it seemed as if invisible arms surrounded me,—bearing me up, above the dark and troubled waters. I felt as if God would open a way for me to walk in; and I resolved to leave the event in his hands. Had I applied to an earthly counsellor, with wisdom to direct, they might have told me, that one who had been guilty of the crime my father had committed, had forfeited every claim on a daughter's heart. That I had no right to endanger a husband's happiness, or to sacrifice my own peace, in consequence of his rash demand. No instinctive attraction drew me to this mysterious man. Instead of the yearnings of filial affection, I felt for him an unconquerable repugnance. His letter touched me, but his countenance repelled. His bold, unreceding eye;—not thus should a father gaze upon his child.
Upon what apparent trifles the events of our life sometimes depend! At the breakfast table, Madge suddenly asked what day of the month it was.
Then I remembered that it was the day appointed for a meeting of the ladies composing a benevolent association, of which I had been lately made a member. After the conversation with Ernest, in which I had expressed such an anxiety to do good, he had supplied me bountifully with means, so that my purse was literally overflowing. I had met the society once, and had gonealone. The hour of the meeting wasten. What a coincidence! Was Providence opening a way in which my doubting feet should walk? When I mentioned the day of the month, I added,
"Our Society for the Relief of Invalid Seamstresses meets this morning. I had forgotten it, till your question reminded me that this was the day."
"Do not your coffers need replenishing, fair Lady Bountiful?" asked Ernest. "This is an association founded on principles which I revere. If any class of females merit the sympathy and kind offices of the generous sisterhood, it is that, whose services are so ill repaid, and whose lives must be one long drawn sigh of weariness and anxiety. Give, my Gabriella, to your heart's content; and if one pale cheek is colored with the glow of hope, one dim eye lighted with joy, something will be added to the sum of human happiness."
Ernest was unusually kind and tender. He watched me as the fond mother does the child, whom she has perhaps too severely chided. He seemed to wish to atone for the pain he had given, and to assure me by his manner that his confidence was perfectly restored.
"I shall avail myself of your absence," said he, "to pay some of my epistolary debts. They have weighed heavy on my conscience for some time."
"And I," said Madge, "have engaged to spend the day with Miss Haven. You can drop me on the way."
Madge had behaved unusually well during the morning, and did not harass me at the breakfast table, as I feared she would, about the bold stranger at the theatre. Perhaps my pale cheeks spoke too plainly of the sufferings of the evening, and she had a heart after all.
As I went into my room to prepare for going out, my hands trembled so that I could scarcely fasten the ribbons of my bonnet. Every thing seemed to facilitate my filial duty; but the more easy seemed its accomplishment, the more I shrunk from the thought of deceiving Ernest, in this hour of restored tranquillity and abounding love. I loathed the idea of deceiving any one,—but Ernest, my lover, my husband,—how could I beguile his new-born confidence?
He came in, and wrapped me up in my ermine-trimmed cloak, warning me of exposing myself to the morning air, which was of wintry bleakness.
"You must bring back the roses which I have banished from your cheeks," said he, kissing them with a tenderness and gentleness that made my heart ache with anguish. I did not deserve these caresses; and if my purpose were discovered, would they not be the last?
Shuddering, as I asked myself this question, I turned towards him, as if to daguerreotype on my heart every lineament of his striking and expressive face. How beautiful was his countenance this moment, softened by tenderness, so delicately pale, yet so lustrous, like the moonlight night!
"Oh, Ernest!" said I, throwing my arms around him, with a burst of irrepressible emotion, "I am not worthy of the love you bear me, but yet I prize it far more than life. If the hour comes when it is withdrawn from me, I pray Heaven it may be my last."
"It can never be withdrawn, my Gabriella. You may cast it from your bosom, and it may wither, like the flower trampled by the foot of man; but by my own act it never can be destroyed. Nor by yours either, my beloved wife. At this moment I have a trust in you as entire as in heaven itself. I look back with wonder and remorse on the dark delusions to which I have submitted myself. But the spell is broken; the demon laid. Sorrow has had its season; but joy hath come in the morning. Smile, my darling Gabriella, in token of forgiveness and peace."
I tried to smile, but the tears would gather into my eyes.
"Foolish girl!" he cried. A loud laugh rung under the silken arches. Madge stood in the open door, her great black eyes brimming with mirth.
"When you have finished your parting ceremonies," she exclaimed, "I think we had better start. One would think you were going to Kamschatka or Terra del Fuego, instead of Broadway. Oh dear! what a ridiculous thing it is to see people in love with each other, after they are married! Come, Gabriella; you can carry his miniature with you."
As the carriage rolled from the gate, I was so agitated at the thought of the approaching interview I could not speak. Madge rattled away, in her usual light manner; but I did not attempt to answer her. I leaned back in the carriage, revolving the best way of accomplishing my design. After leaving Madge, instead of going to the lady's, at whose house the society met, I ordered the coachman to drive to one of the fashionable stores and leave me.
"Return in an hour," said I, as I left the carriage. "You will find me at Mrs. Brahan's. Drive the horses out to the Battery for exercise, as you usually do."
As I gave these orders, my heart beat so fast I could hardly articulate with distinctness. Yet there was nothing in them to excite suspicion. The horses were high-fed and little used, gay and spirited, and when we shopped or made morning calls, the coachman was in the habit of driving them about, to subdue their fiery speed.
I should make too conspicuous an appearance in the park, in my elegant cloak, trimmed with costly ermine and bonnet shaded with snowy plumes. I would be recognized at once, for the bride of the jealous Ernest was an object of interest and curiosity. To obviate this difficulty, I purchased a large gray shawl, of soft, yielding material, that completely covered my cloak; a thick, green veil, through which my features could not be discerned, and walked with rapid steps through the hurrying crowd that thronged the side-walks towards the —— Park.
It was too early an hour for the usual gathering of children and nurses. Indeed, at this cold, wintry season, the warm nursery was a more comfortable and enticing place.
The park presented a dreary, desolate aspect. No fountain tossed up its silvery waters, falling in rainbows back to earth. The leafless branches of the trees shone coldly in the thin glazing of frostwork and creaked against each other, as the bleak wind whistled through them. Here and there, a ruddy-faced Irish woman, wrapped in a large blanket-shawl, with a coarse straw bonnet blown back from her head, breasted the breeze with a little trotting child, who took half a dozen steps to one of hers, tugging hard at her hand. It was not likely I should meet a fashionable acquaintance at this early hour; and if I did, I was shrouded from recognition.
I had scarcely passed the revolving gate, before I saw a gentleman approaching from the opposite entrance with rapid and decided steps. He was tall and stately, and had that unmistakable air of high-breeding which, being once acquired, can never be entirely lost. As he came nearer, I could distinguish the features of the stranger; features which, seen by daylight, exhibited still more plainly the stamp of recklessness, dissipation, and vice. They had once been handsome, but alas! alas! was this the man who had captivated the hearts of two lovely women, and then broken them? Where was the fascination which had enthralled alike the youthful Rosalie and the impassioned Therésa? Was this, indeed, the once gallant and long beloved St. James?
"You have come," he exclaimed, eagerly grasping my hand and pressing it in his. "I bless you, my daughter,—and may God forever bless you for listening to a father's prayer!"
"I have come," I answered, in low, trembling accents, for indescribable agitation almost choked my utterance,—"but I can not,—dare not linger. It was cruel in you to bind me to secrecy. Had it not been for the mother,—whose dying words"—
"And is she dead,—the wronged,—the angel Rosalie? How vainly I have sought her,—and thee, my cherub little one! My sufferings have avenged her wrongs."
He turned away, and covered his face with his handkerchief. I saw his breast heave with suppressed sobs. It is an awful thing to see a strong man weep,—especially when the tears are wrung by the agonies of remorse. I felt for him the most intense pity,—the most entire forgiveness,—yet I recoiled from his approach,—I shrunk from the touch of his dry and nervous hand. I felt polluted, degraded, by the contact.
"My mother told me, if I ever met you, to give you not only her forgiveness, but her blessing. She blessed you, for the sufferings that weaned her from earth and chastened her spirit for a holier and happier world. She bade me tell you, that in spite of her wrongs she had never ceased to love you. In obedience to her dying will, I have shown you a daughter's duty so far as to meet you here, and learn what I can do for one placed in the awful circumstances in which you declare yourself to be. Speak quickly and briefly, for on every passing moment the whole happiness of my life hangs trembling."
"Only let me see your face for the few moments we are together, that I may carry its remembrance to my grave,—that face so like your mother's."
"What can I do?" I exclaimed, removing the veil as I spoke,—for there was no one near; and I could not refuse a petition so earnest. "Oh, tell me quickly what I can do. What dreadful doom is impending over you?"
"You are beautiful, my child,—very, very beautiful," said he; while his dark, sunken eyes seemed to burn me with the intensity of their gaze.
"Talk not to me of beauty, at a moment like this!" I exclaimed, stamping my foot in the agony of my impatience. "I cannot, will not stay, unless to aid you. Your presence is awful! for it reminds me of my mother's wrongs,—my own clouded birth."
"I deserve this, and far more," he cried, in tones of the most object humility. "Oh, my child, I am brought very low;—I am a lost and ruined man. Maddened by your mother's desertion, I became reckless,—desperate. I fled from the home another had usurped. I became the prey of villains, who robbed me of my fortune at the gaming table. Another, and another step;—lower and lower still I sunk. I cannot tell you the story of my ruin. Enough, I am lost! The sword of the violated law gleams over my head. Every moment it may fall. I dare not remain another day in this city. I dare not stay in my native land. If I do, yonder dismal Tombs will be my life-long abode."
"Fly, then,—fly this moment," I cried. "What madness! to linger in the midst of danger and disgrace!"
"Alas! my daughter, I am penniless. I had laid aside a large sum, sufficient for the emergency; but a wretch robbed me of all, only two nights since. Humiliating as it is, I must turn beggar to my child. Your husband is a Dives; I, the Lazarus, who am perishing at his gate."
"Ask him. He is noble and generous. He will fill your purse with gold, and aid you to escape. Go to him at once. You know not his princely heart."
"Never! On you alone I depend. I will not ask a favor of man, to save my soul from perdition. Girl! have you no power over the wealth that must be rusting in your coffers? Are you not trusted with the key to your household treasures?"
"Do you think I would take his gold clandestinely?" I asked, glowing with indignation, and recoiling from the expression of his eager, burning eye. We were walking slowly during this exciting conversation; and, cold as it was, the moisture gathered on my brow. "Here is a purse, given me for a holier purpose. Take it, and let me go."
"Thank you,—bless you, my child! but this will only relieve present necessity. It will not carry me in safety to distant climes. Bless you! but take it back, take it back. I can only meet my doom!"
"Iwillgo to my husband!" I exclaimed with sudden resolution; "Iwilltell him all, and he, and he alone shall aid you. I will not wrong him by acting without his knowledge. You have no right to endanger my life-long peace. You have destroyed my mother; must her child too be sacrificed?"
"I see there is but one path of escape," he cried, snatching a pistol from his breast, and turning the muzzle to his heart. "Fool, dolt, idiot that I am! I dreamed of salvation from a daughter's hand, but I have forfeited a father's name, a father's affection. Gabriella, you might save me, but I blame you not. Do not curse me, though I fill a felon's grave;—better that than the dungeon—the scaffold."
"What would you do?" I whispered hoarsely, seizing his arm with spasmodic grasp.
"Die, before I am betrayed."
"I will not betray you; what sum will suffice for your emergency? Name it."
"As many thousands as there are hundreds there," pointing to the purse.
"Good heavens!"
"Gabriella, you must have jewels worth a prince's ransom; you had diamonds last night on your neck and arms that would redeem your father's life. Each gem is but a drop of water in the deep sea ofhisriches. His uncle was a modern Cr[oe]sus, and he, his sole heir."
"How know you this?" I asked.
"Every one knows it. The rich are the cities on the hill-tops, seen afar off. You hesitate,—you tremble. Keep your diamonds,—but remember they will eat like burning coals into your flesh."
Fierce and deadly passions gleamed from his eye. He clenched the pistol so tight that his nails turned of a purplish blue.
No one was near us, to witness a scene so strange and appalling. The thundering sounds of city life were rolling along the great thoroughfare of the metropolis, now rattling, shrill, and startling, then roaring, swelling, and subsiding again, like the distant surf; but around us, there was silence and space. In the brief moment that we stood face to face, my mind was at work with preternatural activity. I remembered that I had a set of diamonds,—the bridal gift of Mrs. Linwood,—a superb and costly set, which I had left a week previous in the hands of the jeweller, that he might remedy a slight defect in the clasps. Those which I wore at the theatre, and which had attracted his insatiate eye, were the gift of Ernest. He had clasped them around my neck and arms, as he was about to lead me to the altar, and hallowed the offering with a bridegroom's kiss. I could have given my heart's blood sooner than the radiant pledge of wedded faith and love.
I could go to the jewellers,—get possession of the diamonds, and thus redeem my guilty parent from impending ruin. Then, the waves of the Atlantic would roll between us, and I would be spared the humiliation and agony of another scene like this. I told him to follow me at a short distance; that I would get the jewels; that he could receive them from me in the street in the midst of the jostling crowd without observation.
"It is the last time," I cried, "the last time I ever act without my husband's knowledge. I have obeyed my mother, I have fulfilled my duty, at the risk of all my soul holds dear. And now, as you hope to meet hereafter her, who, if angels can sorrow, still mourns over your transgressions, quit the dark path you are now treading, and devote your future life to penitence and prayer. Oh! by my mother's wrongs and woes, and by my own, by the mighty power of God and a Saviour's dying love, I entreat you to repent, forsake your sins, and live, live, forever more."
Tears gushed from my eyes and checked my utterance. Oh! how sad, how dreadful, to address a father thus.
"Gabriella!" he exclaimed, "you are an angel. Pray for me, pray for me, thou pure and holy being, and forgive the sins that you say are not beyond the reach of God's mercy, I dare not, not here,—yet for one dear embrace, my child, I would willingly meet the tortures of the prison-house and the scaffold."
I recoiled with horror at the suggestion. I would not have had his arms around me for worlds. I could not call himfather. I pitied,—wept for him; but I shrunk with loathing from his presence. Dropping my veil over my face, I turned hastily, gained the street, pressed on through the moving mass without looking to the right or left, till I reached the shop where my jewels were deposited,—took them without waiting for explanation or inquiry, hurried back till I met St. James, slipped the casket into his eager hand, and pressed on without uttering a syllable. Never shall I forget the expression of his countenance as he received the casket. The fierce, wild, exulting flash of his dark sunken eye, whose reddish blackness seemed suddenly to ignite and burn like heated iron. There was something demoniac in its glare, and it haunted me in my dreams long, long afterwards.
I did not look back, but hurried on, rejoicing that rapidity of motion was too customary in Broadway to attract attention. Before I arrived at the place of meeting, I wished to divest myself of the shawl which I had used as a disguise; and it was no difficult matter, where poverty is met in all its forms of wretchedness and woe.
"Take this, my good woman," said I, throwing the soft gray covering over the shoulders of a thin, shivering, haggard looking female, on whose face chill penury was written in withering lines. "You are cold and suffering."
"Bless your sweet face. God Almighty bless you!" was wafted to my ears, in tremulous accents,—for I did not stop to meet her look of wonder, gratitude, and ecstasy. I did not deserve her blessing; but the garment sheltered her meagre frame, and she went on her way rejoicing.
When I entered Mrs. Brahan's drawing-room, I was in a kind of somnambulism,—moving, walking, seeing, yet hardly conscious of what I was doing, or what was passing around me. She was the president of the association, and a very charming woman.
"We feared we were not going to see you this morning," she said, glancing at a French clock, which showed the lateness of the hour; "but we esteem it a privilege to have you with us, even for a short time. We know," she added, with a smile, "what a sacrifice we impose on Mr. Linwood, when we deprive him of your society."
"Yes!" cried a sprightly young lady, with whom I was slightly acquainted, "we all consider it an event, when we can catch a glimpse of Mrs. Linwood. Her appearance at the theatre last night created as great a sensation as would a new constellation in the zodiac."
These allusions to my husband's exclusive devotion brought the color to my cheeks, and the soft, warm air of the room stole soothingly round me. I tried to rouse myself to a consciousness of the present, and apologized for my delay with more ease and composure than I expected.
When the treasurer received the usual funds, I was obliged to throw myself on her leniency.
"I have disposed of my purse since I left home," said I, with a guilty blush, "but I will double my contribution at the next meeting."
"It is no matter," was the reply. "You have already met your responsibilities,—far more than met them,—your reputation for benevolence is already too well established for us to doubt that your will is equal to your power."
Whenever I went into society, I realized the distinction of being the wife of the rich and exclusive Ernest Linwood, the mistress of the oriental palace, as Mrs. Brahan called our dwelling-place. I always found myself flattered and caressed, and perhaps something was owing to personal attraction. I never presumed on the distinction awarded me; never made myself or mine the subjects of conversation, or sought to engross the attention of others. I had always remembered the obscurity of my early life, the cloud upon my birth, not abjectly, butproudly. I was too proud to arrogate to myself any credit for the adventitious circumstances which had raised me above the level of others,—too proud of the love that had given the elevation, to exalt myself as worthy of it.
"I think you must be the happiest being in the world, Mrs. Linwood," said the sprightly young lady, who had taken a seat by my side, and who had the brightest, most sparkling countenance I ever saw. "You live in such a beautiful,beautifulplace, with such an elegant husband, too! What a life of enchantment yours must be! Do you know you are the envy of all the young ladies of the city?"
"I hope not," I answered, trying to respond in the same sportive strain; and every one knows, that when the heart is oppressed by secret anxiety, it is easier to be gay than cheerful. "I hope not; as I might be in danger of being exhaled by some subtle perfume. I have heard of the art of poisoning being brought to such perfection, that it can be communicated by a flower or a ring."
"It must be a very fascinating study," she said, laughingly. "I intend to take lessons, though I think throwing vitriol in the face and marring its beauty, is the most effectual way of removing a rival."
"I thought you were discussing the wants and miseries of the sewing sisterhood," said Mrs. Brahan, coming near us. "What started so horrible a theme?"
"Mr. Linwood's perfections," said the young lady, with a gay smile.
"He has one great fault," observed Mrs. Brahan; "he keeps you too close a prisoner, my dear. I fear he is very selfish. Tell him so from me; for he must not expect to monopolize a jewel formed to adorn and beautify the world."
She spoke sportively, benignantly, without knowing the deep truth of her words. She knew that my husband sought retirement; that I seldom went abroad without him. But she knew not, dreamed not, of the strength of the master-passion that governed his actions.
Gradually the company dispersed. As I came so late, I remained a little behind the rest, attracted by a painting in the back parlor. I suppose I inherited from my father a love of the fine arts; for I never could pass a statue or a picture without pausing to gaze upon it.
This represented a rocky battlement, rising in the midst of the deep blue sea. The silvery glimmer of moonlight shone on the rippling waves; moonlight breaking through dark clouds,—producing the most dazzling contrast of light and shade. A large vessel, in full sail, glided along in the gloom of the shadows; a little skiff floated on the white-crested, sparkling, shining tide. The flag of our country waved from the rocky tower. I seemed gazing on a familiar scene. Those wave washed battlements; that floating banner; the figures of soldiers marching on the ramparts, with folded arms and measured tread,—all appeared like the embodiment of a dream.
"What does this represent?" I asked.
"Fortress Monroe, on Chesapeake Bay."
"I thought so. Who was the artist?"
"I think his name was St. James. It is on the picture, near the frame. Yes,—Henry Gabriel St. James. What a beautiful name! Poor fellow!—I believe he had a sad fate! Mr. Brahan could tell you something of his history. He purchased this house of him seventeen years ago. What is the matter, Mrs. Linwood?"
I sank on the nearest seat, incapable of supporting myself. I was in the house where I was born,—where my mother passed the brief period of her wedded happiness; whence she was driven, a wronged, despairing woman, with me, an unconscious infant, in her arms. It was my father's glowing sketch on which I was gazing,—that father whom I had so recently met,—a criminal, evading the demands of justice; a man who had lost all his original brightness,—a being of sin and misery.
Mrs. Brahan rang for water; but I did not faint.
"I have taken a long walk this morning," I said, "and your rooms are warm. I feel better, now. And this house belonged to the artist? I feel interested in his story."
"I wish Mr. Brahan were here; but I will tell you all I recollect. It was a long time ago; and what we hear from others of individuals in whom we have no personal interest, is soon forgotten. Do you really feel better? Well, I believe St. James, the artist, was a highly accomplished, gifted man. He was married to a beautiful young wife, and I think had one child. Of course he was supremely happy. It seems he was called away from home very suddenly, was gone a few months, and when he returned, he found his wife and child fled, and a stranger claiming her name and place. I never heard this mystery explained; but it is said, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, while he sought by every means to recover his lost treasure, but in vain. His reason at one time forsook him, and his health declined. At length, unable to remain where every thing reminded him of his departed happiness, he resolved to leave the country and go to foreign climes. Mr. Brahan, who wished to purchase at that time, was pleased with the house,—bought it, and brought me here, a bride. He has altered and improved it a great deal, but many things remain just as they were. You seem interested. There is something mysterious and romantic connected with it. Oh! here is Mr. Brahan himself; he can relate it far better than I can."
After the usual courtesies of meeting, she resumed the subject, and told her husband how much interested I was in the history of the unfortunate artist.
"Ah yes!" cried he; "poor fellow!—he was sore beset. Two women claimed him as wives,—and he lost both. I never heard a clear account of this part of his life; for when I knew him, he was just emerging from insanity, and it was supposed his mind was still clouded. He was very reserved on the subject of his personal misfortunes. I only know it was the loss of the wife whom he acknowledged that unsettled his reason. He was a magnificent looking fellow,—full of genius and feeling. He told me he was going to Italy,—and very likely he died of a broken heart, beneath its sunny and genial skies. He was a fine artist. That picture has inspiration in it. Look at the reflection of the moon in the water. How tremulous it is! You can almost see the silver rippling beneath that gliding boat. He was a man of genius. There is no doubt he was."
"I should like to show Mrs. Linwood the picture which you found in the closet of his studio," said Mrs. Brahan. "Do you know, I think there is a resemblance to herself?"
"So there is," exclaimed Mr. Brahan, as if making a sudden discovery. "Her face has haunted me since I first beheld her, and I have just discovered where I have seen its semblance. If you will walk up stairs, I will show it to you."
Almost mechanically I followed up the winding stairs, so often pressed by the feet now mouldering side by side beneath the dark coffin lid, into the room where my now degraded parent gave form and coloring to the dreams of imagination, or the shadows of memory. The walls were arching, and lighted from above. Mr. Brahan had converted it into a library, and it was literally lined with books on every side but one. Suspended on that, in a massy gilt frame, was a sketch which arrested my gaze, and it had no power to wander. The head alone was finished,—but such a head! I recognized at once my mother's features; not as I had seen them faded by sorrow, but in the soft radiance of love and happiness. They did not wear the rosy brightness of the miniature I had seen in my father's hand, which was probably taken immediately after her marriage. This picture represented her as my imagination pictured her after my birth, when the tender anxieties of the mother softened and subdued the splendor of her girlish beauty; those eyes,—those unforgotten eyes, with their long, curling lashes, and expression of heavenly sweetness,—how they seemed to bend on me,—the child she had so much loved! I longed to kneel before it, to appeal to it, by every holy and endearing epithet,—to reach the cold, unconscious canvas, and cover it with my kisses and my tears. But I could only gaze and gaze, and the strong spell that bound me was mistaken for the ecstasy of admiration, such as genius only can awaken.
"There is a wonderful resemblance," said Mr. Brahan, breaking the silence. "I shall feel great pride henceforth in saying, I have an admirable likeness of Mrs. Linwood."
"I ought to feel greatly flattered," I answered with a quick drawn breath; "it certainly is very lovely."
"It has the loveliest expression I ever saw in woman's countenance," observed Mr. Brahan. "Perhaps, after making such a remark, I ought not to say, that in that chiefly lies its resemblance to yourself, but it is emphatically so."
"She must be too much accustomed to compliments to mind yours, my dear," said Mrs. Brahan. "I think Mrs. Linwood has the advantage of the picture, for she has the bloom and light of life. No painting can supply these."
"There is something in the perfect repose of a picture," said I, withdrawing my eyes from my mother's seraphic countenance; "something in its serene, unchanging beauty, that is a type of immortality, of the divine rest of the soul. Life is restless, and grows tremulous as we gaze."
"O that that picture were mine!" I unconsciously uttered, as I turned to take a last look on leaving the apartment.
"I do not know that it is mine to give," said Mr. Brahan, "as I found it here after purchasing the house. The one below was presented me by St. James himself. If, however, you will allow me to send it to Mr. Linwood, I really think he has the best right to it, on account of its remarkable resemblance to yourself."
"Oh no, indeed," I exclaimed; "I did not mean, did not think of such a thing. It was a childish way of expressing my admiration of the painting. If you will give me the privilege of sometimes calling to look at it, I shall be greatly indebted."
I hurried down stairs, fearful of committing myself in some way, so as to betray the secret of my birth.
"I wish you would come and see us often, Mrs. Linwood," said Mrs. Brahan, as I bade her adieu. "We are not very fashionable; but if I read your character aright, you will not dislike us on that account. A young person, who is almost a stranger in a great city like this, sometimes feels the want of an older friend. Let me be that friend."
"Thank you, dear madam," I answered, returning the cordial pressure of her hand; "you do not know how deeply I appreciate your proffered friendship, or how happy I shall be to cultivate it."
With many kind and polite expressions, they both accompanied me to the door, and I left them with the conviction that wedded happiness might be perfect after the experience of seventeen years.
When alone in the carriage, I tried to compose my agitated and excited mind. So much had been crowded into the space of a few hours, that it seemed as if days must have passed since I left home. I tried to reconcile what I hadheardwith what I hadseenof my father; but I could not identify the magnificent artist, the man of genius and of feeling, with the degenerate being from whom I had recoiled one hour ago. Could a long career of guilt and shame thus deface and obliterate that divine and godlike image, in which man was formed? He must have loved my mother. Desperation for her loss had plunged him into the wildest excesses of dissipation. From my soul I pitied him. I would never cease to pray for him, never regret what I had done to save him from ruin, even if my own happiness were wrecked by the act. I had tried to do what was right, and God, who seeth the heart, would forgive me, if wrong was the result.
Letters from Mrs. Linwood and Edith waited me at home. Their perusal gave me an opportunity to collect my thoughts, and an excuse to talk of them, of Grandison Place, rather than of topics connected with the present. Yet all the time I was reading Mrs. Linwood's expression of trusting affection, I said to myself,—
"What would she say, if she knew I had parted with her splendid gift, unknown to my husband, whose happiness she committed so solemnly to my keeping?"
I told Ernest of the interesting circumstances connected with Mr. Brahan's house, and of the picture of my mother I so longed that I should see. The wish was gratified sooner than I anticipated; for that very evening, it was sent to me by Mr. Brahan, with a very elegant note, in which he asked me to take charge of it till the rightful owner appeared to claim it as his own.
"Itislike you, Gabriella," said Ernest, gazing with evident admiration on the beauteous semblance; "and it is an exquisite painting too. You must cherish this picture as a proof of your mother's beauty and your father's genius."
I did cherish it, as a household divinity. I almost worshipped it, for though I did not burn before it frankincense and myrrh, I offered to it the daily incense of memory and love.
As Margaret consented to remain a week with her friend Miss Haven, we were left in quiet possession of our elegant leisure, and Ernest openly rejoiced in her absence. He read aloud to me, played and sung with thrilling melody, and drew out all his powers of fascination for my entertainment. The fear of his discovering my clandestine meeting grew fainter and fainter as day after day passed, without a circumstance arising which would lead to detection.
One evening, Mr. Harland, with several other gentlemen, was with us. Ernest was unusually affable, and of course my spirits rose in proportion. In the course of conversation, Mr. Harland remarked that he had abetfor me to decide.
"I cannot consent to be an umpire," said I. "I dislike betting in ladies, and if gentlemen indulge in it, they must refer to their own sex, not ours."
"But it has reference to yourself," he cried, "and you alonecandecide."
"To me!" I exclaimed, involuntarily glancing at Ernest.
"Yes! A friend of mine insists that he saw you walking in the —— Park, the other morning, with a gentleman, who was too tall for Mr. Linwood. That you wore a gray shawl and green veil, but that your air and figure could not possibly be mistaken. I told him, in the first place, that you never dressed in that style; in the second, that he was too far from you to distinguish you from another; and in the third, that it was impossible you should be seen walking with any gentleman but your husband, as he never gave them an opportunity. As he offered a high wager, and I accepted it, I feel no small interest in the decision."
"Tell your friend, Mr. Harland," exclaimed Ernest, rising from his seat, and turning pale as marble, "that I will not permit my wife's name to be bandied from lip to lip in the public street, nor her movements made a subject for low and vulgar betting."
"Mr. Linwood!" cried Mr. Harland, rising too, with anger flashing from his eyes, "do you apply those remarks to me?"
"I make no application," answered Ernest, with inexpressible haughtiness; "but I again assert, that the freedom taken with my wife's name is unwarrantable, andshallnot be repeated."
"If Mrs. Linwood considers herself insulted," cried Mr. Harland, "I am ready to offerherany apology she may desire. Of one thing she may be assured: no disrespect was intended by the gentleman to whom I allude, and she certainly cannot think that I would forget her claims as a lady, and as the wife of the man whom I had reason to believe my friend."
He spoke the last sentence with strong emphasis, and the blood mounted high in the pale face of Ernest. I could only bow, as Mr. Harland concluded, in acceptance of the apology, for I saw a thunder-cloud darkening over me, and knew it would break in terror over my head.
"I have spoken hastily, Mr. Harland," said Ernest. "If I have said any thing wounding to your feelings, as a gentleman, I recall it. But you may tell your friend, that the next time he asserts that he has seen Mrs. Linwood walking with a stranger, in a public place, when Iknowshe was in company with some of the first ladies of the city for benevolent designs, I shall call him to account for such gross misrepresentations."
And I heard this in silence,—without contradiction.
Oh! how must the woman feel who has deceived her husband for a guilty purpose, when I, whose motives were pure and upright, suffered such unutterable anguish in the prospect of detection? If I were hardened enough to deny the assertion,—if I could only have laughed and wondered at the preposterous mistake,—if I could have assumed an air of indifference and composure, my secret might have been safe. But I was a novice in deception; and burning blushes, and pale, cold shadows alternately flitted across my face.
It was impossible to resume the conversation interrupted by a scene so distressing to some, so disagreeable to all. One by one our guests retired, and I was left alone with Ernest.
The chandeliers were glittering overhead, the azure curtains received their light in every sweeping fold, cherubs smiled bewitchingly from the arching ceiling, and roses that looked as if they might have blossomed by "Bendemere's stream," blushed beneath my feet,—yet I would gladly have exchanged all this splendor for a spot in the furthest isle of the ocean, a lone and barren spot, where the dark glance which Ifelt, but did not see, could not penetrate.
I sat with downcast eyes and wildly throbbing heart, trying to summon resolution to meet the trial I saw there was no means of escaping. If he questioned, I must answer. I could not, dared not, utter a falsehood, and evasion would be considered equivalent to it.
He walked back and forth the whole length of the parlor, two or three times, without speaking, then stopped directly in front of me, still silent. Unable to bear the intolerable oppression of my feelings, I started up and attempted to leave the room; but he arrested me by the arm, and his waxen fingers seemed hardened to steel.
"Gabriella!"
His voice sounded so distant, so cold!
"Ernest!"
I raised my eyes, and for a moment we looked each other in the face. There was fascination in his glance, and yet it had the dagger's keenness.
"What is the meaning of what I have just heard? What is the meaning of a report, which I should have regarded as the idle wind, did not your overwhelming confusion establish its truth? Tell me, for I am not a man to be tampered with, as you will find to your cost."
"I cannot answer when addressed in such a tone. Oh, I cannot."
"Gabriella! this is not a moment to trifle. Tell me, without prevarication,—were you, or were you not in the Park, walking with a gentleman, on the morning you left for Mrs. Brahan's? Answer me,—yes, or no."
Had he spoken with gentleness,—had he seemed moved to sorrow as well as indignation, I would have thrown myself at his feet, and deprecated his anger; but my spirit rose in rebellion at the stern despotism of his manner, and nerved itself to resist his coercive will.
Truly is it said, "We know not what manner of spirit we are of."
I little thought how high mine could rebound from the strong pressure which, in anticipation, crushed it to the dust.
I felt firm to endure, strong to resist.
"Ernest! I have done you no wrong," I answered, raising my eyes to his pale, dark countenance. "I have done nothing to merit the displeasure which makes you forget the courtesy of a gentleman, as well as the tenderness of a husband."
"Then it was a false report," he exclaimed,—a ray of light flashing from his clouded eyes,—"you could not look me in the face and speak in that tone unless you were innocent! Why did you not deny it at once?"
"Only listen to me, Ernest," I cried; "only give me a patient, gentle hearing, and I will give you a history, which I am certain will convert your indignation into sympathy, and free me from suspicion or blame."
I armed myself with resolution to tell him all. My father was in all probability far away on the billows of the Atlantic. My disclosures could not affect him now. My promise of secrecy did not extend into the future. I would gladly have withheld from my husband the knowledge of his degradation, for it was humiliating to the child to reveal the parent's shame. Criminal he knew him to be, with regard to my mother, but Ernest had said, when gazing on her picture, he almost forgave the crime which had so much to extenuate it. The gambler, the profligate, the lost, abandoned being, who had thrown himself so abjectly on my compassion: in these characters, the high-minded Ernest would spurn him with withering indignation. Yet as the interview had been observed, and his suspicions excited, it was my duty to make an unreserved confession,—and I did. Conscious of the purity of my motives, and assured that he must eventually acquit me of blame, I told him all, from the note he dropped into my lap at the theatre, to the diamond casket given in parting to his desperate hand. I told him all my struggles, my fears, my agonies,—dwelling most of all on the agony I suffered in being compelled to deceivehim.
Silently, immovably he heard me, never interrupting me by question or explanation. He had seated himself on a sofa when I began, motioning me to sit down by him, but I drew forward a low footstool and sat at his feet, looking up with the earnestness of truth and the confidence of innocence. Oh! he could not help but acquit me,—he could not help but pity me. I had done him injustice in believing it possible for him to condemn me for an act of filial obedience, involving so much self-sacrifice and anguish. He would clasp me to his bosom,—he would fold me in his arms,—he would call me his "own, darling Gabriella."
A pause,—a chilling pause succeeded the deep-drawn breath with which I closed the confession. Cold, bitter cold, fell that silence on my hoping, trembling, yet glowing heart. He was leaning on his elbow,—his hand covered his brow.
"Ernest," at length I said, "you have heard my explanation. Am I, or am I not, acquitted?"
He started as if from a trance, clasped his hands tightly together, and lifted them above his head,—then springing up, he drew back from me, as if I were a viper coiling at his feet.
"Your father!" he exclaimed with withering scorn. "Your father! The tale is marvellously conceived and admirably related. Do you expect me to believe that that bold libertine, who made you the object of his unrepressed admiration, was your father? Why, that man was not old enough to be your father,—and if ever profligacy was written on a human countenance, its damning lines were traced on his. Your father! Away with a subterfuge so vile and flimsy, a falsehood so wanton and sacrilegious."
Should I live a thousand years, I never could forget the awful shock of that moment, the whirlwind of passion that raged in my bosom. To be accused offalsehood, and such a falsehood, by Ernest, after my truthful, impassioned revelation;—it was what I could not, would not bear. My heart seemed a boiling cauldron, whence the hot blood rushed in burning streams to face, neck, and hands. My eyes flashed, my lips quivered with indignation.
"Is it I, your wife, whom you accuse of falsehood?" I exclaimed; "dare you repeat an accusation so vile?"
"Did you notacta falsehood, when you so grossly deceived me, by pretending to go on an errand of benevolence, when in reality you were bound to a disgraceful assignation? What veteranintriguanteever arranged any thing more coolly, more deliberately? Even if the story of that man's being your father were not false, what trust could I ever repose in one so skilled in deception, so artful, and so perfidious?"
"Ernest, you will rue what you say now, to your dying day; you will rue it at the judgment bar of heaven; you are doing me the cruellest wrong man ever inflicted on woman."
The burning current in my veins was cooling,—a chill, benumbing sense of injustice and injury was settling on every feeling. I looked in his face, and its classic beauty vanished, even its lineaments seemed changed, the illusion of love was passing away; with indescribable horror I felt this; it was like the opening of a deep, dark abyss. Take away my love for Ernest, and what would be left of life? Darkness—despair—annihilation. I thought not, recked not then of his lost love for me; I only dreaded ceasing to lovehim, dreaded that congelation of the heart more terrible than death.
"Where is the note?" he asked suddenly. "Show me the warrant for this secret meeting."
"I destroyed it."
Again a thunder-gust swept over his countenance. I ought to have kept it, I ought to have anticipated a moment like this, but my judgment was obscure by fear.
"You destroyed it!"
"Yes; and well might I dread a disclosure which has brought on a scene so humbling to us both. Let it not continue; you have heard from me nothing but plain and holy truth; I have nothing to say in my defence. Had I acted differently, you yourself would despise and condemn me."
"Had you come to me as you ought to have done, asking my counsel and assistance, I would have met the wretch who sought to beguile you; I would have detected the imposter, if you indeed believed the tale; I would have saved you from the shame of a public exposure, and myself the misery, the tortures of this hour."
"Did he not threaten your life and his own? Did he not appeal to me in the most solemn and awful manner not to betray him?"
"You might have known the man who urged you to deceive your husband to be a villain."
"Alas! alas! I know him to be a villain; and yet he is my father."
"He is not your father! I know he is not. I would swear it before a court of justice. I would swear it before the chancery of the skies!"
"Would to heaven that your words were true. Would to heaven my being were not derived from such a polluted source. But I know too well that heismy father; and that he has entailed on me everlasting sorrow. You admit, that if he is an impostor, I was myself deceived. You recall your fearful accusation."
"My God!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands, and looking wildly upwards, "I know not what to believe. I would give worlds, were they mine, for the sweet confidence forever lost! The cloud was passing away from my soul. Sunshine, hope, love, joy, were there. I was wrapped in the dreams of Elysium! Why have you so cruelly awakened me? If you had deceived me once, why not go on; deny the accusation; fool, dupe me,—do any thing but convince me that where I have so blindly worshipped, I have been so treacherously betrayed."
I pitied him,—from the bottom of my soul I pitied him, his countenance expressed such exceeding bitter anguish. I saw that passion obscured his reason; that while under its dominion he was incapable of perceiving the truth. I remembered the warning accents of his mother: "You have no right to complain." I remembered her Christian injunction, "to endure all;" and my own promise, with God's help, to do it. All at once, it seemed as if my guardian angel stood before me, with a countenance of celestial sweetness shaded by sorrow; and I trembled as I gazed. I had bowed my shoulder to the cross; but as soon as the burden galled and oppressed me, I had hurled it from me, exclaiming, "it was greater than I could bear." Ihaddeceived, though not betrayed him. Ihadput myself in the power of a villain, and exposed myself to the tongue of slander. I had expected, dreaded his anger; and was it not partly just?
As these thoughts darted through my mind with the swiftness and power of lightning, love returned in all its living warmth, and anguish in proportion to the wound it had received. I was borne down irresistibly by the weight of my emotions. My knees bent under me. I bowed my face on the sofa; and tears, hot and fast as tropic rain, gushed from my eyes. I wept for him even more than myself,—wept for the "dark-spotted flower" twined with the roses of love.
I heard him walking the room with troubled steps; and every step sounded as mournful to me as the earth-fall on the coffin-lid. Their echo was scarcely audible on the soft, yielding carpet; yet they seemed loud and heavy to my excited ear. Then I heard him approach the sofa, and stop, close to the spot where I knelt. My heart almost ceased beating; when he suddenly knelt at my side, and put his arms around me.
"Gabriella!" said he, "if I have done you wrong, may God forgive me; but I never can forgive myself."
Accents of love issuing from the grave could hardly have been more thrilling or unexpected. I turned, and leaning my head on his shoulder, I felt myself drawn closer and closer to the heart from which I believed myself for ever estranged. I entreated his forgiveness for having deceived him. I told him, for I believed it then, that the purity of the motive did not justify the act; and I promised in the most solemn manner never again, under any circumstances, to bind myself to do any thing unknown to him, or even to act spontaneously without his knowledge. In the rapture of reconciliation, I was willing to give any pledge as a security for love, without realizing that jealousy was a Shylock, exacting the fulfilment of the bond,—the pound of flesh "nearest the heart." Yes, more exacting still, forhepaused, when forbidden to spill the red life-drops, and dropped the murderous knife.
And Ernest,—with what deep self-abasement he acknowledged the errors into which blind passion had led him. With what anguish he reflected on the disgraceful charge he had brought against me. Yes; even with tears, he owned his injustice and madness, and begged me to forget and forgive.
"What have I done?" he cried, when, after our passionate emotions having subsided, we sat hand in hand, still pale and trembling, but subdued and grateful, like two mariners escaped from wreck, watching the billows roaring back from the shore. "What have I done, that this curse should be entailed upon me? In these paroxysms of madness, I am no more master of myself than the maniac who hurls his desperate hand in the face of Omnipotence. Reason has no power,—love no influence. Dark clouds rush across my mind, shutting out the light of truth. My heart freezes, as in a wintry storm. O, Gabriella! you can have no conception of what I suffer, while I writhe in the tempter's grasp. It is said God never allows man to be tempted beyond his powers of resistance. I dare not question the word of the Most High, but in the hour of temptation I feel like an infant contending with the Philistine giant. But, oh! the joy, the rapture when the paroxysm is past,—when light dawns on the darkness, when warmth comes meltingly over the ice and snow, when reason resumes its sway, and love its empire,—oh! my beloved! it is life renewed—it is a resurrection from the dead,—it is Paradise regained in the heart."
Those who have floated along on a smooth, tranquil tide, clear of the breakers and whirlpools and rocks, or whose bark has lain on stagnant waters, on which a green and murky shade is beginning to gather, with no breeze to fan them or to curl the dull and lifeless pool, will accuse me of exaggeration, and say such scenes never occurred in the actual experience of wedded life; that I am writing a romance, instead of a reality.
I answer them, that I am drawing the sketch as faithfully as the artist, who transfers the living form to the canvas; that as it is scarcely possible to exaggerate the dying agonies of the malefactor transfixed by the dagger, and writhing in protracted tortures, that the painter may immortalize himself by the death-throes on which he is gazing; so the agonies of him,