Ernest Linwood Part 41

He had seen Mrs. Linwood and Edith in Boston. They were both well, and looking anxiously forward to the summer reunion at Grandison Place. Dr.

Harlowe sent me many characteristic messages,--telling me my little rocking-chair was waiting for me at my favorite window, and that he had not learned to rub his shoes on the mat, or to hang up his hat yet.

"Does he call me the wild-cat, still?" asked Madge.

"I believe so. He told me to say that he had his house repaired, so that you could visit him without endangering Mrs. Harlowe's china."

"The monster! Well, he shall give me a new name, when I see him again.

But tell me, Mr. Regulus, who is the very dignified and excellent gentleman whom mamma says is coming to escort me home? I have been expiring with curiosity to know."

"I do not know of any one answering to that description, Miss Margaret,"

replied Mr. Regulus, blus.h.i.+ng, and pa.s.sing his hands over his knees. "I saw your mother at Mrs. Linwood's; and when she learned I was coming to this city, she said she would be very much obliged to me, if I would take charge of you, on my return."

"Then you did not come on purpose for me, Mr. Regulus," said Madge, with a saucy smile.

"Oh no,--I had business, and a very earnest desire to see my young friend, Gabriella. If I can, however, combine the useful with the agreeable, I shall be very well pleased."

"By the useful, you mean, seeing me safe in my mamma's arms," said Madge, demurely.

"Certainly, Miss Margaret."

Even Ernest laughed at this peculiar compliment; and Madge bit her lips, half in vexation, half in merriment. I hardly knew what to think of Margaret. She was certainly the most eccentric being I ever saw. She, who seemed to care for the opinion of no one,--reckless, defying, and apparently heartless, showed more deference for Mr. Regulus, more solicitude for his attention, than I had ever seen her manifest for another's. Was it possible that this strange, wild girl, was attracted by the pure, unvarnished qualities of this "great grown boy," as Dr.

Harlowe called him? It is impossible to account for the fascination which one being exercises over another; and from the days of Desdemona to the present hour, we seldom hear of an approaching marriage, without hearing at the same time some one exclaim, "that it is strange,--most pa.s.sing strange."

The moment I admitted the possibility of his exercising a secret influence over Madge, I looked upon him with new interest. He had the intense, deep-set eye, which is said to tame the wild beasts of the forest, and perhaps its glance had subdued the animal nature that triumphed over her more ethereal attributes. I hoped most devoutly that my supposition might be true; for genuine affection exalts both the giver and receiver, and opens ten thousand avenues to joy and good.

"You do not look quite so rosy as you did in the country," said he, looking earnestly at me. "The dissipation of a city life does not agree with our wild-wood flowers. They need a purer atmosphere."

"Gabriella is taken very good care of," cried Madge, looking significantly at Ernest. "She is not allowed to hurt herself by dissipation, I a.s.sure you."

"Do you imply that she needs a restraining influence to keep her from excess?" asked Ernest. He spoke lightly, but he never spoke without meaning something.

"No, indeed. She is the model wife of the nineteenth century. She is 'wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.' Solomon must have seen her with prophetic eye, when he wrote the last chapter of Proverbs."

"Mock praise is the severest censure, Margaret," said I.

"No such thing. I mean every word I say. Show me a young and beautiful wife, almost bride, immuring herself as you do, and never seen in public but clinging to her husband's arm, shrinking from admiration and blus.h.i.+ng at a glance, and I will show you another Solomon."

"Though you may speak in ridicule," said Ernest, with a contracted brow, "you have awarded her the most glorious meed woman can receive. The fas.h.i.+on that sanctions a wife in receiving the attentions of any gentleman but her husband, is the most corrupt and demoralizing in the world. It makes wedded vows a mockery, and marriage an unholy and heartless rite."

"Do you expect to revolutionize society?" she asked.

"No; but I expect to keep my wife unspotted from the world."

"I am glad she has so watchful a guardian," said Mr. Regulus, regarding me with his old-fas.h.i.+oned, earnest tenderness. "We hear very flattering accounts," he added, addressing me, "of our young friend, Richard Clyde.

He will return next summer, after a year's absence, having acquired as much benefit as most young men do in two or three."

I could not help blus.h.i.+ng, for I knew the eyes of Ernest were on me. He could never hear the name of Richard with indifference, and the prospect of his return was far from being a source of pleasure to him. Richard was very dear to me as a friend, and I was proud of his growing honors.

Yet I dared not manifest the interest I felt.

Never had I been so supremely happy, as since my reconciliation with Ernest. I felt that he had something to forgive, much to forgive, and that he was magnanimous to do it, considering the weakness with which he struggled. Never had I loved him so entirely, or felt such confidence in my future happiness. Yet the moment the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, it sounded like a prophecy of evil.

Oh that he would transfer to Edith the affections given to me, and then he could bind Ernest to his heart by the sacred bonds of fraternity!

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

The few days which Mr. Regulus pa.s.sed in the city, were happy ones to me. He had never visited it before; and Ernest showed him more respect and attention than I had seen him bestow on other men. I had never betrayed the _romance_ of the academy; and not dreaming that my preceptor had ever been my lover, he tolerated the regard he manifested, believing it partook of the paternal character. Perhaps, had he remained long, he would have considered even this an infringement on his rights; but, to my unspeakable joy, nothing occurred to cloud our domestic horizon during his stay. Once or twice when the name of Richard Clyde was mentioned, I saw the shadow of _coming events_ on the brow of Ernest; but it pa.s.sed away, and the evil day of his return seemed very far off.

I could not regret Margaret's departure. There was so entire a dissimilarity in our characters, and though I have no doubt she cherished for me all the friends.h.i.+p she was capable of feeling, it was of that masculine cast, that I could not help shrinking from its manifestations. Her embraces were so stringent, her kisses so loud and resounding, I could not receive them without embarra.s.sment, though no one but Ernest might be near.

The evening before she left, she was in an unusually gentle mood. We were alone in my chamber, and she actually sat still several moments without speaking. This was something as ominous as the pause that precedes the earth's spasmodic throes. I have not spoken of Margaret's destructive propensities, but they were developed in a most extraordinary manner. She had a habit of seizing hold of every thing she looked at, and if it chanced to be of delicate materials, it often s.h.i.+vered in her grasp. I do not wonder poor Mrs. Harlowe trembled for her gla.s.s and china, for scarcely a day pa.s.sed that her path was not strewed with ruins, whose exquisite fragments betrayed the costly fabric she had destroyed. Now it was a beautiful porcelain vase, which she would have in her hands to examine and admire, then an alabaster statuette or frail crystal ornament. If I dropped a kid glove, she invariably attempted to put it on, and her hand being much larger than mine, she as invariably tore it in shreds. She would laugh, roll up her eyes, and exclaim, "shocking! why this could not be worth anything! I will let it alone next time."

I cannot say but that these daily proofs of carelessness and destructiveness were trials of the temper and constant gratings on the nerves. It was difficult to smile with a frowning heart, for such wanton disregard for the property and feelings of others must pain that nice moral sense which is connected with the great law of self-preservation.

This evening, she seized a beautiful perfume bottle that stood on my toilet, and opening it, spilled it half on her handkerchief, though one drop would fill the whole apartment with richest odor.

"Do not break that bottle, Margaret; it is very beautiful, and Ernest gave it me this very morning."

"Oh! nonsense, I am the most careful creature in the world. Once in a while, to be sure,--but then accidents will happen, you know. O Gabriella I have something to tell you. Mr. Harland wants me to marry him,--ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, you seemed pleased, Margaret. He is an accomplished gentleman, and an agreeable one. Do you like him?"

"No! I liked him very well, till he wanted me to like him better, and now I detest him. He is all froth,--does not know much more than I do myself. No, no,--that will never do."

"Perhaps you like some one else better?" said I, thinking if Margaret was ever caught in the matrimonial noose, it must be a _la.s.so_, such as are thrown round the neck of the wild horses of the prairies.

"What makes you say that?" she asked, quickly, and my beautiful essence bottle was demolished by some sudden jerk which brought it in contact with the marble table. "The brittle thing!" she exclaimed, tossing the fragments on the carpet, at the risk of cutting our slippers and wounding our feet. "I would not thank Ernest for such baby trifles,--I was scarcely touching it. What makes you think I like anybody better?"

"I merely asked the question," I answered, closing my work box, and drawing it nearer, so that her depredating fingers could not reach it.

She had already destroyed half its contents.

"I do like somebody a great deal better," she said, tossing her hair over her forehead and veiling her eyes; "but if you guessed till doomsday, you could not imagine who it is."

"I pity him, whoever it may be," said I, laughing.

"Why?"

"You are no more fit to be a wife, Madge, than a child of five years old. You have no more thought or consideration, foresight or care."

"I am two years older than you are, notwithstanding."

"I fear if you live to be a hundred, you will never have the qualities necessary to secure your own happiness and that of another in the close, knitting bonds of wedded life."

I spoke more seriously than I intended. I was thinking of Mr. Regulus, and most devoutly hoped for his sake, this wild, nondescript girl would never reach his heart through the medium of his vanity. She certainly paid him the most dangerous kind of flattery, because it was indirect.

"You do not know what a sensible man might make of me," she said, shaking her head. "I really wish,--I do not know--but I sometimes think"--