Ernest Linwood Part 51

He spoke with fervor, and his countenance lighted up with enthusiasm.

Bodily weakness and languor had disappeared, and his transparent cheek glowed with the excitement of his feelings.

"If you are really thus supported by divine enthusiasm," I said, with an involuntary kindling of admiration, "perhaps I ought to submit in silence, where I cannot understand. Forgive me before I leave you, Ernest, this rash intrusion. We may forgive even our enemies."

"Forgive, Gabriella! Oh! if you knew the flood of joy and rapture that for one moment deluged my soul! I dare not recall it. Forgive, O my G.o.d!"

He turned away, covered his face with his left hand, and made a repelling gesture with the other. I understood the motion, and obeyed it.

"Farewell, Ernest," said I, slowly retreating; "may angels minister to you and bear up your spirit on their wings of love!"

I looked back, on the threshold, and met his glance then turned towards me. Had I been one of the angels I invoked, it could not have been more adoring.

And thus we parted; and when I attempted to describe the interview to his mother, I wept and sobbed as if I had been paying a visit to his grave. And yet I was glad that I had been, glad that I had bridged the gulf that separated us, though but momentarily.

Perhaps some may smile at this record. I have no doubt they will, and p.r.o.nounce the character of Ernest unnatural and _impossible_. But in all his idiosyncrasy, he is the Ernest Linwood of Grandison Place, just such as I have delineated him, just such as I knew and loved. I know that there are scenes that have seemed, that will seem, overwrought, and I have often been tempted to throw down the pen, regretting the task I have undertaken. But, were we permitted to steal behind the scenes of many a life drama, what startling discoveries would we make! Reality goes beyond the wildest imaginings of romance,--beyond the majestic sweep of human genius. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination conceived, the wild extent to which the pa.s.sions of man may go. The empire of pa.s.sion is veiled, and its battle ground is secret Who beheld the interview in the library, which I have just described? Who saw him kneeling at his mother's feet at the midnight hour? Or who witnessed our scenes of agony and reconciliation in the palace walls of our winter home? Ah! the world sees only the surface of the great deep of the heart. It has never plunged into the innermost main,--never beheld the seething and the rolling of the unfathomable mystery:--

"And where is the diver so stout to go,-- I ask ye again--to the deep below?"

Well do I remember the thrilling legend of the roaring whirlpools, the golden goblet, and the dauntless diver, and well do I read its meaning.

O Ernest! I have cast the golden goblet of happiness into a maelstrom, and he alone, who walked unsinking the waves of Galilee, can bring back the lost treasure from the dark and boiling vortex.

CHAPTER XLIX.

Julian was worthy of Edith. His parentage was honorable and pure, his connections irreproachable, and his own character n.o.ble and unblemished.

Reason could oppose no obstacle, and the young artist was received into the family as the betrothed of the lovely lame girl.

The romantic idea which had suggested itself to my mind, that he might be the son of Theresa and my own half-brother, had vanished before the testimonies of his birth. Another daydream too. I had always looked forward to the hour when Richard would transfer his affections to Edith, and be rewarded by her love for his youthful disappointment. But she was destined to reign in undivided sovereignty over a heart that had never been devoted to another; to be loved with all the fervor of pa.s.sion and all the enthusiasm of genius.

It was the day of social gathering at Dr. Harlowe's; but I remained at home. I felt as if I could not be missed from the circle in which Madge, in bridal charms, sparkled a ruby gem, and the fairer Edith shone, a living pearl. Though scarcely one year a wife, the discipline of my wedded experience had so chastened and subdued me, I seemed to myself quite a matron, beside those on whom the morning glow of love and hope were beaming. Madge and Edith were both older than myself, and yet I had begun to live far earlier.

In the later part of the day, Mrs. Linwood, who had also remained at home, asked me to accompany her in a ride. She wished to visit several who were sick and afflicted, and I always felt it a privilege to be her companion.

"Will you object to calling here?" she asked, when we approached the old gray cottage, once my mother's home and my own. "There is a sick woman here, whom I wish to see. You can walk about the green skirting the woods, if you prefer. This enchanting breeze will give new life to your body and new brightness to your spirits."

I thanked her for the permission, knowing well the kind regard to my feelings which induced her to give it. She knew sad memories must hang around the apartments where my mother and the faithful Peggy had suffered and died; and that it would be a trial to me to see strangers occupying the places so hallowed by a.s.sociation.

Time had been at work on that old cottage, with its noiseless but effacing fingers. And its embroidering fingers too, for the roof from which many a s.h.i.+ngle had fallen, was green with garlands of moss, wrought into the damp and mouldering wood with exquisite grace and skill. I turned away with a sigh, and beheld infancy by the side of the humble ruin, the oriental palace which was my bridal home, and wondered at the marvellous changes of life.

I wandered to the welling spring by whose gus.h.i.+ng waters I had so often sat, indulging the wild poetry of my childish imagination. I gazed around, scarcely recognizing the once enchanting spot. A stone had literally rolled against the mouth of the fountain, and the crystal diamonds no longer sparkled in the basin below. An awkward pump, put up near the cabin, explained this appearance of neglect and wildness. The soft gra.s.sy slope where I used to recline and watch the fountain's silvery play, was overgrown with tall, rank, rustling weeds, among which I could distinguish the deadly bloom and sickening odor of the nightshade. There was a rock covered with the brightest, richest covering of dark green moss, on which I seated myself, and gave myself up to the memories of the past. Perhaps this was the same rock on which Richard Clyde and I had often sat side by side, and watched the shadows of twilight purple the valley.

I untied my bonnet and laid it on the long gra.s.s, for I was shaded from the western sun, and the breeze blew fresh and pure from the hills he was about to crown with a right royal diadem. While I thus sat, I heard footsteps quick and eager echoing behind, and Richard Clyde bounded down the slope and threw himself on the ground at my side.

"Thank heaven," he exclaimed, "I have found you, Gabriella, and found you alone!"

His manner was hurried and agitated, his eyes had a wild expression, and tossing aside his hat, he wiped thick-coming drops of perspiration from his forehead.

His words, and the unusual excitement of his manner, alarmed me.

"What has happened, Richard? Where have you sought me? What tidings have you to communicate? Speak, and tell me, for I tremble with fear."

"I am so agitated," he cried, sitting down on the rock at my side, and taking one of my hands in his. I started, for his was so icy cold and tremulous, and his face was as pale as Ernest's. He looked like one who had escaped some terrible danger, and in whose bosom horror and grat.i.tude were struggling for mastery.

"Is it of Ernest you have come to tell me?" I asked, with blanched lips.

"No, no, no! I know nothing of him. It is of myself,--of you, I would speak. I have just made the most astonis.h.i.+ng discovery! Never till now have I heard your real name and early history. O! Gabriella you whom I have loved so long with such fervor, such pa.s.sion, such idolatry,--you (O righteous G.o.d forgive me!) are the daughter of my father,--for Theresa La Fontaine was my own mother. Gabriella,--sister,--beloved!"

He clasped me to his bosom; he kissed me again and again, weeping and sobbing like a child. In broken words he deplored his sinful pa.s.sion, entreating me to forgive him, to love him as a brother, to cling to him as a friend, and feel that there was one who would live to protect, or die to defend me. Bewildered and enraptured by this most unthought of and astounding discovery, my heart acknowledged its truth and glowed with grat.i.tude and joy. Richard, the n.o.ble-hearted, gallant Richard, was my brother! My soul's desire was satisfied. How I had yearned for a brother! and to find him,--and such a brother! Oh I joy unspeakable. Oh!

how strange,--how pa.s.sing strange,--how almost pa.s.sing credulity!

At any moment this discovery would have been welcomed with rapture. But now, when the voluntary estrangement of Ernest had thrown my warm affections back for the time into my own bosom, to pine for want of cheris.h.i.+ng, it came like a burst of suns.h.i.+ne after a long and dreary darkness,--like the music of gus.h.i.+ng waters to the feverish and thirsty pilgrim.

My heart was too full for questions, and his for explanations. They would come in due time. He was _my brother_,--that was enough. Ernest could not be jealous of a brother's love. He would own with pride the fraternal bond, and forget the father's crimes in the son's virtues.

It seemed but a moment since Richard had called me sister. Neither of us had spoken, for tears choked our words; but our arms were still entwined, and my head rested on his bosom, in all the abandonment of nature's holiest feelings. All at once I heard a rustling in the gra.s.s, soft and stealthy like a gliding snake. I raised my head, looked back, looked up.

Merciful Father of heaven and earth! did I not then pa.s.s the agonies of death?

I saw a face,--my G.o.d! how dark, how deadly, how terrible it was! I knew that face, and my heart was rifted as if by a thunderbolt.

The loud report of a pistol, and a shriek such as never before issued from mortal lips, bursting from mine, were simultaneous sounds. Richard fell back with a deep groan. Then there seemed a rus.h.i.+ng sound as the breaking up of the great deep, a heaving and tossing like the throes of an earthquake; then a sinking, sinking, lower and lower, and then a cloud black as night and heavy as iron came lowering and crus.h.i.+ng me,--me, and the bleeding Richard. All was darkness,--silence,--oblivion.

CHAPTER L.

A light, soft and glimmering as morning twilight, floated round me. Was it the dawn of an eternal morning, or the lingering radiance of life's departing day? Did my spirit animate the motionless body extended on that snowy bed, or was it hovering, faint and invisible, above the confines of mortality?

I was just awakened to the consciousness of existence,--a dim, vague consciousness, such as one feels in a dissolving dream. I seemed involved in a white, transparent cloud, and reclining on one of those downy-looking cloud-beds that I have seen waiting to receive the sinking sun.

While thus I lay, living the dawning life of infancy, the white cloud softly rolled on one side, and a figure appeared in the opening, that belonged to a previous state of existence. I had seen its mild lineaments in another world; but when,--how long ago?

My eyes rested on the features of the lady till they grew more and more familiar, but there was a white cloud round her face, that threw a mournful shadow over it,--_that_ I had never seen before. Again my eyelids closed, and I seemed pa.s.sing away, where, I knew not; yet consciousness remained. I felt soft, trembling kisses breathed upon my face, and tears too, mingling with their balm. With a delicious perception of tenderness, watchfulness, and love, I sunk into a deep, deep sleep.

When I awoke, the silver l.u.s.tre of an astral lamp, shaded by a screen, glimmered in the apartment and quivered like moonbeams in the white drapery that curtained the bed. I knew where I was,--I was in my own chamber, and the lady who sat by my bedside, and whose profile I beheld through the parted folds of the curtains, was Mrs. Linwood. And yet, how strange! It must have been years since we had met, for the lovely brown of her hair was now a pale silver gray, and age had laid its withering hand on her brow. With a faint cry, I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed her name, and attempted to raise my head from the pillow, but in vain. I had no power of motion.

Even the exertion of uttering her name was beyond my strength. She rose, bent over me, looked earnestly and long into the eyes uplifted to her face, then dropping on her knees and clasping her hands, her spirit went upwards in silent prayer.

As thus she knelt, and I gazed on her upturned countenance, shaded by that strange, mournful, silver cloud, my thoughts began to shape themselves slowly and gradually, as the features of a landscape through dissolving mists. They trembled as the foliage trembles in the breeze that disperses the vapors. Images of the past gained distinctness of outline and coloring, and all at once, like the black hull, broken mast, and rent sails of a wrecked vessel, one awful scene rose before me. The face, like that of the angel of death, the sound terrible as the thunders of doom, the bleeding body that my arms encircled, the destroying husband,--the victim brother,--all came back to me; life,--memory,--grief,--horror,--all came back.

"Ernest! Richard!" burst in anguish from my feeble lips.

"They live! my child, they live!" said Mrs. Linwood, rising from her knees and taking my pa.s.sive hand in both hers; "but ask nothing now; you have been very ill, you are weak as an infant; you must be tranquil, patient, and submissive; and grateful, too, to a G.o.d of infinite mercy.

When you are stronger I will talk to you, but not now. You must yield yourself to my guidance, in the spirit of an unweaned child."