Ernest Linwood Part 39

Brahan's house, and of the picture of my mother I so longed that I should see. The wish was gratified sooner than I antic.i.p.ated; 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.

"It _is_ like 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 wors.h.i.+pped 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 pa.s.sed, without a circ.u.mstance 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 a _bet_ for 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 s.e.x, not ours."

"But it has reference to yourself," he cried, "and you alone _can_ decide."

"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 flas.h.i.+ng from his eyes, "do you apply those remarks to me?"

"I make no application," answered Ernest, with inexpressible haughtiness; "but I again a.s.sert, that the freedom taken with my wife's name is unwarrantable, and _shall_ not be repeated."

"If Mrs. Linwood considers herself insulted," cried Mr. Harland, "I am ready to offer _her_ any apology she may desire. Of one thing she may be a.s.sured: 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 a.s.serts that he has seen Mrs. Linwood walking with a stranger, in a public place, when I _know_ she 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 a.s.sertion,--if I could only have laughed and wondered at the preposterous mistake,--if I could have a.s.sumed 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 I _felt_, 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 antic.i.p.ation, 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 compa.s.sion: 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 a.s.sured 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 deceive _him_.

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 d.a.m.ning 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 pa.s.sion that raged in my bosom. To be accused of _falsehood_, and such a falsehood, by Ernest, after my truthful, impa.s.sioned 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 not _act_ a 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 a.s.signation? What veteran _intriguante_ ever 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 cla.s.sic beauty vanished, even its lineaments seemed changed, the illusion of love was pa.s.sing 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 love _him_, 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."