Ernest Linwood Part 45

"There is no task appointed to man or woman," she answered, "which may not be performed, through the power of G.o.d and the influences of the Holy Spirit. Remember this, my beloved daughter; and remember, too, that the heart which _bends_ will not _break_. Good-night! We had better not renew this theme. 'Patient continuance in well-doing;' let this be your motto, and if happiness in this world be not your reward, immortality and glory in the next will be yours."

I looked after her as she gently retreated, and as the light glanced on the folds of her silver gray dress, she seemed to me as one of the s.h.i.+ning ones revealed in the pilgrim's vision. At that moment _her_ esteem and approbation seemed as precious to me as Ernest's love. I entered my chamber, and sitting down quietly in my beloved recess, repeated over and over again the Christian motto, which the lips of Mrs.

Linwood uttered in parting,--"Patient continuance in well-doing."

I condemned myself for the feelings I had been indulging. I had felt bitter towards Edith for smiling so sweetly in her brother's face, when it had turned so coldly from me. I was envious of her power to soothe the restless spirit I had so unconsciously troubled. As I thus communed with my own heart, I unbound my hair, that the air might exhale the mist which had gathered in its folds. I brushed out the damp tresses, till, self-mesmerized, a soft haziness stole over my senses, and though I did not sleep, I was on the borders of the land of dreams.

CHAPTER XLIII.

I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something dejected in his att.i.tude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned his forehead against the window sash.

I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked.

He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of his shoulder, and knew that he heard me.

"What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?"

"I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry, but grieved, wounded, and unhappy."

"And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?"

"Gabriella, you mock me!" he exclaimed, suddenly rising and speaking in a low, stern voice. "You know that you are yourself the cause of my grief, and your words are as hollow as your actions are vain. Did you not promise, solemnly promise never to deceive me again, after having caused me such agony by the deception I yet freely forgave?"

"Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived? If I know myself, every word and action has been as clear and open as noonday."

"Did you ever tell me your teacher was your lover,--he with whom you were so intimately a.s.sociated when I first knew you? You suffered me to believe that he was to you in the relation almost of a father. I received him as such in my own home. I lavished upon him every hospitable attention, as the friend and guide of your youth, and now you suffer me to hear from others that his romantic love was the theme of village gossip, that your names are still a.s.sociated by idle tongues."

"I always believed before that unrequited love was not a theme for vain boasting, that it was a secret too sacred to be divulged even to the dearest and the nearest."

"But every one who has been so unfortunate as to be a.s.sociated with you, seems to have been the victims of unrequited love. The name of Richard Clyde is familiar to all as the model of despairing lovers, and even Dr.

Harlowe addresses you in a strain of unpardonable levity."

"O Ernest, cannot you spare even him?"

"You asked me the cause of my displeasure, and I have told you the source of my grief, otherwise I had been silent. There must be something wrong, Gabriella, or you would not be the subject of such remarks.

Edith, all lovely as she is, pa.s.ses on without exciting them. The most distant allusion to a lover should be considered an insult by a wedded woman and most especially in her husband's presence."

"I have never sought admiration or love," said I, every feeling of delicacy and pride rising to repel an insinuation so unjust. "When they have been mine, they were spontaneous gifts, offered n.o.bly, and if not accepted, at least declined with grat.i.tude and sensibility. If I have been so unfortunate as to win what your lovely sister might more justly claim, it has been by the exercise of no base allurement or meritricious attractions. I appeal to your own experience, and if it does not acquit me, I am for ever silent."

Coldly and proudly my eye met his, as we stood face to face in the light of the midnight moon. I, who had looked up to him with the reverence due to a superior being, felt that I was above him now. He was the slave of an unjust pa.s.sion, the dupe of a distempered fancy, and as such unworthy of my respect and love. As I admitted this truth, I shuddered with that vague horror we feel in dreams, when we recoil from the brink of something, we know not what. I trembled when his lips opened, fearful he would say something more irrational and unmanly still.

"O Ernest!" I cried, all at once yielding to the emotions that were bearing me down with such irresistible power, "you frighten me, you fill me with unspeakable dread. There seems a deep abyss yawning between us, and I stand upon one icy brink and you on the other, and the chasm widens, and I stretch out my arms in vain to reach you, and I call, and nothing but a dreary echo answers, and I look into my heart and do not find you there. Save me, Ernest, save me,--my husband, save yourself from a doom so dreadful!"

Excited by the awful picture of desolation I had drawn, I slid down upon my knees and raised my clasped hands, as if pleading for life beneath the axe of the executioner. I must have been the very personification of despair, with my hair wildly sweeping round me, and hands locked in agony.

"To live on, live on together, year after year, cold and estranged, without love, without hope,"--I continued, unable to check the words that came now as in a rus.h.i.+ng tide,--"Oh! is it not dreadful, Ernest, even to think of? There is no evil I could not bear while we loved one another. If poverty came,--welcome, welcome. I could toil and smile, if I only toiled for you, if I were only _trusted_, only _believed_. There is no sacrifice I would not make to prove my faith. Do you demand my right hand?--cut it off; my right eye?--pluck it out;--I withhold nothing. I would even lay my heart bleeding at your feet in attestation of my truth. But what can I do, when the idle breath of others, over which I have no power, shakes the tottering fabric of your confidence, and I am buried beneath the ruins?"

"You have never loved like me, Gabriella, or you would never dream of the possibility of its being extinguished," said he, in a tone of indescribable wretchedness. "I may alienate you from me, by the indulgence of insane pa.s.sions, by accusations repented as soon as uttered,--I may revile and persecute,--but I can never cease to love you."

"O Ernest!" It was all gone,--pride, anger, despair, were gone. The first glance of returning love,--the first acknowledgment of uttered wrong, were enough for me. I was in his arms, next to his heart, and the last hours seemed a dream of darkness. I was happy again; but I trembled even in the joy of reconciliation. I realized on what a slender thread my wedded happiness was hanging, and knew that it must one day break.

Moments like these were like those green and glowing spots found on the volcano's burning edge. The lava of pa.s.sion might sweep over them quick as the lightning's flash, and beauty and bloom be covered with ashes and desolation.

And so the cloud pa.s.sed by,--and Ernest was, if possible, more tender and devoted, and I tried to cast off the prophetic sadness that would at times steal over the brightness of the future. I was literally giving up all for him. I no longer derived pleasure from the society of Mr.

Regulus. I dreaded the sportive sallies of Dr. Harlowe. I looked forward with terror to the return of Richard Clyde. I grew nervous and restless.

The color would come and go in my face, like the flashes of the aurora borealis, and my heart would palpitate suddenly and painfully, as if some unknown evil were impending. Did I now say, as I did a few months after my marriage, that I preferred the stormy elements in which I moved, to the usual calm of domestic life? Did I exult, as the billows swelled beneath me and bore me up on their foaming crests, in the power of raising the whirlwind and the tempest? No; I sighed for rest,--for still waters and tranquil skies.

It is strange, that a subject which has entirely escaped the mind, when a.s.sociations naturally recall it, will sometimes return and haunt it, when nothing seems favorable for its reception.

During my agitated interview with my unhappy father, I had forgotten Theresa La Fontaine, and the boy whose birthright I had unconsciously usurped. Mr. Brahan, in speaking of St. James and his _two_ wives, said they had both disappeared in a mysterious manner. That boy, if living, was my brother, my half-brother, the legitimate inheritor of my name,--a name, alas! he might well blush to bear. _If living_, where was he, and who was he? Was he the heir of his father's vices, and was he conscious of his ignominious career? These questions constantly recurred, now there was no oracle near to answer. Once, and only once, I mentioned them to Mrs. Linwood.

"You had better not attempt to lift the veil which covers the past," she answered, in her most decided manner. "Think of the suffering, not to say disgrace, attached to the discovery of your father,--and let this brother be to you as though he had never been. Tempt not Providence, by indulging one wish on the subject, which might lead to shame and sorrow.

Ernest has acted magnanimously with regard to the circ.u.mstances, which must have been galling beyond expression to one of his proud and sensitive nature. And I, Gabriella,--though out of delicacy to you,--I have forborne any allusion to the events of the last winter, have suffered most deeply and acutely on their account. I have suffered for myself, as well as my son. If there is any thing in this world to be prized next to a blameless conscience, it is an unspotted name. Well is it for you, that your own is covered with one, which from generation to generation has been pure and honorable. Well is it for you, that your husband's love is stronger than his pride, or he might reproach you for a father's ignominy. Remember this, when you feel that you have wrongs to forgive. And as you value your own happiness and ours, never, my child, seek to discover a brother, whom you would probably blush to acknowledge, and my son be compelled to disown."

She spoke with dignity and emphasis, while the pride of a virtuous and honored ancestry, though subdued by Christian grace, darkened her eyes and glowed on her usually colorless cheek. I realized then all her forbearance and delicacy. I understood what a deep wound her family pride must have received, and how bitterly she must have regretted a union, which exposed her son to contact with degradation and crime.

"I would not have spoken as I have, my daughter," she added, in a softened tone, "but with your limited knowledge of the world, you cannot understand the importance attached to unblemished a.s.sociations. And never mention the subject to Ernest, if you would not revive memories that had better slumber for ever."

She immediately resumed her kind and gracious manner, but I never forgot the lesson she had given. My proud spirit needed no second warning.

Never had I felt so crushed, so humiliated by the remembrance of my father's crimes. That he _was_ my father I had never dared to doubt.

Even Ernest relinquished the hope he had cherished, as time pa.s.sed on, and no letter from Mr. Brahan threw any new light on the dark relations.h.i.+p; though removed from the vicinity of the dismal Tombs, the dark, gigantic walls cast their lengthening shadow over the fresh green fields and blossoming meadows, and dimmed the glory of the landscape.

The shadow of the Tombs met the shadow in my heart, and together they produced a chill atmosphere. I sighed for that perfect love which casteth out fear; that free, joyous intercourse of thought and feeling, born of undoubting confidence.

Could I live over again the first year of my wedded life, with the experience that now enlightens me, I would pursue a very different course of action. A pa.s.sion so wild and strong as that which darkened my domestic happiness, should be resisted with the energy of reason, instead of being indulged with the weakness of fear. Every sacrifice made to appease its violence only paved the way for a greater. Every act of my life had reference to this one master-pa.s.sion. I scarcely ever spoke without watching the countenance of Ernest to see the effect of my words. If it was overcast or saddened, I feared I had given utterance to an improper sentiment, and then I blushed in silence. Very unfortunate was it for him, that I thus fed and strengthened the serpent that should have been strangled in the cradle of our love; and his mother unconsciously did the same. She believed him afflicted by a hereditary malady which should inspire pity, and be treated with gentleness rather than resistance. Edith, too,--if a cloud pa.s.sed over his brow, she exerted every winning and endearing sisterly art to chase the gloom.

The history of man for six thousand years shows, that in the exercise of unlimited power he becomes a despot. Kingly annals confirm the truth of this, and domestic records proclaim it with a thundering tongue. There must be a restraining influence on human pa.s.sion, or its turbulent waves swell higher and higher, till they sweep over the landmarks of reason, honor and love. The mighty hand of G.o.d is alone powerful enough to curb the raging billows. He alone can say, "peace, be still." But he has ministers on earth appointed to do his pleasure, and if they fulfil their task He may not be compelled to reveal himself in flaming fire as the G.o.d of retributive justice.

I know that Ernest loved me, with all his heart, soul, and strength; but mingled with this deep, strong love, there was the alloy of selfishness,--the iron of a despotic will. There was the jealousy of power, as well as the jealousy of love, unconsciously exercised and acquiring by indulgence a growing strength.

My happiness was the first desire of his heart, the first aim of his life; but I must be made happy in _his_ way, and by his means. His hand, fair, soft, and delicate as a woman's,--that hand, with its gentle, warm, heart-thrilling pressure, was nevertheless the hand of Procrustes; and though he covered the iron bed with the flowers of love, the spirit sometimes writhed under the coercion it endured.

"You are not well," said Dr. Harlowe, as we met him during an evening walk. "I do not like that fluctuating color, or that quick, irregular breathing."

Ernest started as if he had heard my death-warrant; and, taking my hand, he began to count my quickly throbbing pulse.

"That will never do," said the doctor, smiling. "Her pulse will beat three times as fast under your fingers as mine, if you have been married nearly a year. It is not a good pulse. You had better take care of her."

"He takes a great deal too much care of me, doctor," I cried. "Do not make him think I am an invalid, or he will make a complete hothouse plant of me."

"Who ever saw an invalid with such a color as that?" asked Ernest.

"Too bright--too mutable," answered the doctor, shaking his head. "She is right. You keep her too close. Let her run wild, like any other country girl. Let her rise early and go out into the barnyard, see the cows milked, inhale their odorous breathings, wander in the fields among the new-mown hay, let her rake it into mounds and throw herself on the fragrant heaps, as I have seen her do when a little school-girl. Let her do just as she pleases, go where she pleases, stay as long as she pleases, in the open air and free suns.h.i.+ne; and mark my words, she will wear on her cheeks the steady bloom of the milkmaid, instead of the flitting rosiness of the sunset cloud."

"I am not conscious of imposing so much restraint on her actions as your words imply," said Ernest, a flush of displeasure pa.s.sing over his pale and anxious countenance.