Ernest Linwood Part 36

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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sions; and in solitude their waves beat against his bosom, like the eternal das.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sa.s.sin.

Margaret Melville cares for nothing but her own gratification. A contemptible love of fun and frolic is the ruling pa.s.sion 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 gla.s.s and bra.s.s.' 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 pa.s.sion 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 n.o.ble brow, it seemed to me that "every G.o.d had set its seal," and left the impress of his own divinity.

We started, for the steps of Madge were heard rus.h.i.+ng 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

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 pa.s.sed 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 peris.h.!.+"

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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sociation, 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 gone _alone_. The hour of the meeting was _ten_.

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 replenis.h.i.+ng, fair Lady Bountiful?" asked Ernest. "This is an a.s.sociation founded on principles which I revere. If any cla.s.s 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 a.s.sure 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 hara.s.s 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 l.u.s.trous, 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 accomplis.h.i.+ng 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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.