Ernest Linwood Part 54

Every day, during Richard's illness and mine, came our good and beloved pastor, and he always left a track of light behind him. I always felt nearer heaven when he departed than when he came, for its kingdom was within him.

To him I confided my wish to accompany my brother on his filial mission, and he warmly approved it.

"As surely as I believe the Lord has put it into your heart to go," said he, "do I believe that a blessing will follow you."

Mrs. Linwood was more tardy in her sanction.

"My dear child," she said, looking at me with the tenderest compa.s.sion, "you do not know what is before you. What will you do in that great city without female friends.h.i.+p and sympathy? You and Richard, both so young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. I will not, however, put any obstacle in his path, for man may go unshrinking where woman may not tread. But you, my Gabriella, must remain with me."

"Here, where the phantom of Ernest haunts my every step, where the echo of his voice is heard in every gale, and the shadow of departed joy comes between me and the suns.h.i.+ne of heaven? What can I do here but remind you by my presence of him, whom I have banished for ever from your arms? Let me go, my own dear mother, for I cannot remain pa.s.sive here. I shall not want female sympathy and guardians.h.i.+p, for Mrs. Brahan is all that is kind and tender, and knows enough of my sad history to be ent.i.tled to unbounded confidence. I will write to her, and be guided by her, as if she were another Mrs. Linwood."

She yielded at last, and so did Dr. Harlowe, who cheered me by his cordial approval. He said it was the best thing I could do for myself; for change of scene, and a strong motive of action, might save me from becoming a confirmed invalid. Edith wept, but made no opposition. She believed I was in the path of duty, and that it would be made smooth beneath my feet.

No tidings from Ernest came to interrupt the dreary blank of his absence,--the same continuity of anxiety and uncertainty stretching on into a hopeless futurity. Again and again I said to myself--

"Better so a thousand times, than to live as I have done, scathed by the lightning of jealousy. Even if he returned, I could not, with the fear of G.o.d now before me, renew our unblest wedlock. The hand of violence has sundered us, and my heart fibres must ever bleed from the wrench, but they will not again intwine. He has torn himself ruthlessly from me; and the shattered vine, rent from its stay, is beginning to cling to the pillars of G.o.d's temple. It is for _him_ I pray, for _him_ I mourn, rather than myself. It is for his happiness, rather than my own justification, that I desire him to know the history of my innocence. I am willing to drink the cup of humiliation even to the dregs, if it may not pa.s.s from me; but spare him, O Heavenly Father, the bitter, bitter chalice."

It was a bleak morning in early winter, that we commenced our journey to that city, where little more than a year ago I had gone a young and happy bride. As we rode along the winding avenue, I looked out on the dry russet lawn, the majestic skeleton of the great elm, stripped of the foliage and hues of life, and saw the naked branches of the oaks clinging to each other in sad fraternity, and heard the wind whistling through them as through the shrouds of a vessel. With an involuntary s.h.i.+ver I drew nearer to Richard, and hid my face from the prophetic desolation of nature.

CHAPTER LII.

On our arrival in New York, we stopped at the ---- hotel till private lodgings could be obtained. We both wished to be as retired as possible from public observation, and for this purpose I remained in my room, where Richard, as my brother, had the privilege of visiting me. I was anxious he should go immediately to Mr. Brahan's; for, added to my desire to be under the influence of her feminine regard, I cherished a faint hope that through him I might learn something of Ernest's mysterious exile.

They both returned with Richard; and while Mr. Brahan remained with him below, she came to my chamber, and welcomed me with a warmth and tenderness that melted, while it cheered.

"You must not stay here one hour longer," said she, pressing one hand in hers, while she laid the other caressingly on my short, curling hair.

"You must go with me, and feel as much at home as with your own Mrs.

Linwood. I pa.s.s a great many lonely hours, while my husband is absent engaged in business; and it will be a personal favor to me. Indeed, you must not refuse."

I said something about leaving my brother, while I expressed my grat.i.tude for her kindness.

"Mr. Brahan will arrange that," she said; "you may be a.s.sured he shall be cared for. You have not unpacked your trunk; and here is your bonnet and mantilla ready to be resumed. You did not think I would suffer you to remain among strangers, when my heart has been yearning to meet you for weary months?"

With gentle earnestness she overcame all my scruples; and it was but a little time before I found myself established as a guest in the house where I first beheld the light of existence. How strange it seemed, that the children of the two betrayed and injured beings who had been made exiles from that roof, should be received beneath its shelter after the lapse of so many years!

Mrs. Brahan accompanied me to the chamber prepared for my reception; and had I been her own daughter she could not have lavished upon me more affectionate cares. The picture of my mother, which I had returned when we left the city, was hanging on the wall; and the eyes and lips of heavenly sweetness seemed to welcome her sad descendant to the home of her infancy. As I stood gazing upon it with mingled grief and adoration, Mrs. Brahan encircled me with her arm, and told me she understood now the history of that picture, and the mystery of its wonderful resemblance to me. I had not seen her since the notoriety my name had acquired, in consequence of the diamonds and my father's arrest; and she knew me now as the daughter of that unhappy man. Did she know the circ.u.mstances of the discovery of my brother, and my husband's flight? I dared not ask; but I read so much sympathy and compa.s.sion in her countenance, and so much tenderness in her manners, I thought she had fathomed the depth of my sorrows.

"You look like a girl of fifteen," she said, pa.s.sing her fingers through my carelessly waving locks. "Your hair was very beautiful, but I can scarcely regret its loss."

"I may look more juvenile,--I believe I do, for every one tells me so; but the youth and bloom of my heart are gone for ever."

"For ever from the lips of the young, and from those more advanced in life, mean very different things," answered Mrs. Brahan. "I have no doubt you have happier hours in store, and you will look back to these as morning shadows melting off in the brightening suns.h.i.+ne."

"Do you know all that has happened, dear Mrs. Brahan, since I left your city?"

"The rumor of the distressing circ.u.mstances which attended the discovery of your brother reached us even here, and our hearts bled for you. But all will yet be well. The terrible shock you have sustained will be a death blow to the pa.s.sion that has caused you so much misery. Forgive me, if I make painful allusions; but I cannot suffer you to sink into the gloom of despondency."

"I try to look upward. I do think the hopes which have no home on earth, have found rest in heaven."

"But why, my dear young friend, do you close your heart to earthly hope?

Surely, when your husband returns, you may antic.i.p.ate a joyful reunion."

"When he returns! Alas! his will be a life-long exile. Believing what he does, he will never, never return."

"But you have written and explained every thing?"

"How can I write,--when I know not where to direct, when I know not to what region he has wandered, or what resting-place he has found?"

"But Mr. Harland!" said she, with a look of troubled surprise. "You might learn through him?"

"Mrs. Linwood has written repeatedly to Mr. Harland, and received no answer. She concluded that he had left the city, but knew not how to ascertain his address."

"Then you did not know that he had gone to India? I thought,--I believed,--is it possible that you are not aware"--

"Of what?" I exclaimed, catching hold of her arm, for my brain reeled and my sight darkened.

"That Mr. Linwood accompanied him," she answered, turning pale at the agitation her words excited. To India! that distant, deadly clime! To India, without one farewell, one parting token to her whom he left apparently on the brink of the grave!

By the unutterable anguish of that moment, I knew the delusion that had veiled my motives. I had thought it was only to reclaim a lost parent that I had come, but I found it was the hope of meeting the deluded wanderer, more than filial piety, that had urged my departure.

"To India!" I cried, and my spirit felt the tossings of the wild billows that lay rolling between. "Then we are indeed parted,--parted for ever!"

"Why, t'is but a step from ocean to ocean, from clime to clime," she said in kind, a.s.suring accents. "Men think nothing of such a voyage, for science has furnished wings which bear them over s.p.a.ce with the speed of an eagle. If you knew not his destination, I should think you would rejoice rather than mourn, to be relieved of the torture of suspense.

Had I known that you were ignorant of the fact, I should have written months ago."

"Is it certain that he is gone?" I asked. "Did you see him? Did Mr.

Brahan? How did you learn, what we have vainly sought to know?"

"Mr. Brahan had business with Mr. Harland, and having neglected some important items, followed him on board the s.h.i.+p in which he embarked. It was at night, and he remained but a short time; but he caught a glimpse of your husband, whom he immediately recognized, but who gave him no opportunity of speaking to him. Knowing he was a friend of Mr.

Harland's, he supposed he had come on board to bid him farewell, though he was not aware of his being in the city. When we heard the rumor of the tragic scenes in which he acted so dread a part, and connected it with the time of Mr. Harland's departure, Mr. Brahan recalled Mr.

Linwood's unexpected appearance in the s.h.i.+p, and the mystery was explained. But we dreamed not that his departure was unknown to you. If you had only written to us!"

It was strange that I had never thought of the possibility of their knowing any thing connected with Ernest. Mr. Harland was the only gentleman with whom he was on terms of intimacy, the only one to whom we thought of applying in the extremity of anxiety.

"Has the s.h.i.+p been heard from? What was its name?" I asked, unconscious of the folly of my first question.

"Not yet. It was called the 'Star of the East.' A beautiful and hope-inspiring name. Mr. Brahan can give you Mr. Harland's address. You can write to your husband through him. Every thing is as clear as noonday. Do you not already inhale the fragrance of the opening flowers of joy?"

I tried to smile, but I fear it was a woful attempt. Even the scent of the roses had been crushed out of my heart.

"Your brother is an exceedingly interesting young man," she observed, perceiving that I could not speak without painful agitation of Ernest.

"I have never seen a stranger who won my regard so instantaneously."

"Dear Richard!" I cried, "he is all that he seems, and far more. The n.o.blest, kindest, and best. How sad that such a cloud darkens his young manhood!"