Ernest Linwood Part 34

Ernest took refuge in the library from her wild rattling, and then she poured into my ear the idle gossip she had heard the evening before.

"It never will do," she cried, catching a pair of scissors from my work-box, and twirling them on the ends of her fingers at the imminent risk of their flying into my eyes,--"you must put a stop to this Darby and Joan way of living,--you will be the byword of the fas.h.i.+onable world,--I heard several gentlemen talking about you last night. They said your husband was so exclusive and jealous he would not let the sun look upon you if he could help it,--that he had the house lighted through the roof, so that no one could peep at you through the windows.

Oh! I cannot repeat half the ridiculous things they said, but I am sure your ears must have burned from the compliments they paid you, at least those who have had the good-luck to catch a glimpse of your face. They all agreed that Ernest was a frightful ogre, who ought to be put in a boiling cauldron, for immuring you so closely,--I am going to tell him so."

"Don't, Margaret, don't! If you have any regard for my feelings, don't, I entreat you, ever repeat one word of this unmeaning gossip to him. He is so peculiarly sensitive, he would shrink still more from social intercourse. What a shame it is to talk of him in this manner. I am sure I have as much liberty as I wish. He is ready to gratify every desire of my heart He has made me the happiest of human beings."

"Oh! I know all that, of course. Who would not be happy in such a palace as this?"

"It is not the splendor with which he has surrounded me," I answered, gravely, "but the love which is my earthly Providence, which const.i.tutes my felicity. You may tell these _busy idlers_, who are so interested in my domestic happiness, that I thank my husband for excluding me from companions so inferior to himself,--so incapable of appreciating the purity and elevation of his character."

"Well, my precious soul, don't be angry with them. You are a jewel of a wife, and I dare say he is a diamond of a husband; but you cannot stop peoples' tongues. They _will_ talk when folks set themselves up as exclusives. But let me tell you one thing, my pretty creature!--I am not going to be shut up in a cage while I am here, I a.s.sure you. I am determined to see all the lions; go to all fas.h.i.+onable places of amus.e.m.e.nt, all attractive exhibitions, theatres, concerts, panoramas, every thing that promises the least particle of enjoyment. I shall parade Broadway, frequent Stewart's marble palace, and make myself the belle of the city. And you are to go with me, my dear,--for am I not your guest, and are you not bound to minister to my gratification? As for your ogre, he may go or stay, just as he pleases. There will be plenty who will be glad enough to take his place."

I did not expect that she would have the audacity to say this to Ernest; but she did. I had never asked him to take me to places of public amus.e.m.e.nt, because I knew he did not wish it. Sometimes, when I saw in the morning papers that a celebrated actor was to appear in a fine drama, my heart throbbed with momentary desire, and my lips opened to express it. But delicacy and pride always restrained its expression. I waited for him to say,--

"Gabriella, would you like to go?"

The morning after her arrival she ransacked the papers, and fastening on the column devoted to amus.e.m.e.nts, read its contents aloud, to the evident annoyance of Ernest.

"Niblo's Garden, the inimitable Ravels--_La Fete champetre_,--dancing on the tight-rope, etc. Yes, that's it. We will go there to-night, Gabriella. I have been dying to see the Ravels. Cousin Ernest,--you did not know that you were my cousin, did you?--but you are. Our mothers have been climbing the genealogical tree, and discovered our collateral branches. Cousin Ernest, go and get us tickets before the best seats are secured. What an unpromising countenance! Never mind. Mr. Harland said he would be only too happy to attend Gabriella and myself to any place of amus.e.m.e.nt or party of pleasure. You are not obliged to go, unless you choose. Is he, Gabriella?"

"I certainly should not think of going without him," I answered, vexed to discover how much I really wished to go.

"But you wish to go,--you know you do. Poor, dear little soul! You have never been anywhere,--you have seen nothing,--you live as close and demure as a church mouse,--while this man-monster, who has nothing in the universe to do, from morning till night, but wait upon you and contribute to your gratification, keeps you at home, like a bird in a cage, just to look at and admire. It is too selfish. If _you_ will not tell him so, _I_ will. He shall hear the truth from somebody."

"Margaret!" I said, frightened at the pale anger of Ernest's countenance.

"You dare not look me in the face and say that you do not wish to go, Gabriella? You know you dare not."

"I desire nothing contrary to my husband's wishes."

"You are a little simpleton, then,--and I don't care what people say. It is a sin to encourage him in such selfishness and despotism."

She laughed, but her lips curled with scorn.

Ernest took up a pearl paper-cutter from the table, and bent it, till it broke like gla.s.s in his fingers. He did not know what he was doing.

Madge only laughed the louder. She enjoyed his anger and my trepidation.

"A pretty thing to make a scene of!" she exclaimed. "Here I come all the way from Boston to make you a visit,--expecting you would do every thing to make me happy, as other folks do, when friends visit them. I propose a quiet, respectable amus.e.m.e.nt, in my own frank, go-ahead way,--and lo!--my lord frowns, and my lady trembles, and both, occupied in watching each other's emotions, forget they have a guest to entertain, as well as a friend to gratify."

"You might wait till I have refused to accompany you, Miss Melville,"

said Ernest, in a cold, calm voice. "You know me incapable of such rudeness. But I cannot allow even a lady to make such unpardonable allusions to my domestic feelings and conduct. If a man cannot find a sanctuary from insult in his own home, he may well bar his doors against intrusion, and if he has the spirit of a man, he will."

"She is only jesting," said I, with a beseeching glance. "You know Madge of old,--she never says any thing she really thinks. How can you be excited by any remarks of hers?"

"Cousin Ernest," cried Madge, while the _laughing devil_ in her great black eyes tried to shrink into a hiding-place, "have you not manliness to forgive me, when the rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful?"

She held out her hand with an ardent desire for reconciliation. She found she had a spirit to contend with, stronger than she imagined; and for the moment she was subdued.

"Not your mother, Margaret," replied Ernest, taking the offered hand with a better grace than I antic.i.p.ated. "She is gentle and womanly, like my own. I know not whence you derived your wickedness."

"It is all original. I claim the sole credit of it. Father and mother both saints. I am a moral tangent, flying off between them. Well, we are friends again; are we not?"

"We are at peace," he answered. "You know the conditions, now; and I trust will respect them."

"We are all going to Niblo's," she cried eagerly; "that is one condition."

"Certainly," he answered; and he could not help smiling at the adroitness with which she changed positions with him.

"Will you really like to go, Gabriella?" he asked, turning to me; and his countenance beamed with all its wonted tenderness.

"Oh, yes, indeed I will. I am sure it will be delightful."

"And have you ever desired to partake of pleasures, without telling me of your wishes?"

"I do not know that I can call the transient emotion I have felt, a desire," I answered; blus.h.i.+ng that I had ever cherished thoughts which I was unwilling to disclose. "I believe curiosity is natural to youth and inexperience."

"Perfect love casteth out fear, Gabriella. You must promise to tell me every wish of your heart; and be a.s.sured, if consistent with reason, it shall be gratified."

Delighted at so pleasant a termination to so inauspicious a beginning, I looked forward to the evening's entertainment with bright and elastic spirits. Once, as my eye rested on the fragments of pearl, I sighed to think how easily the pearls of sensibility, as well as all the frail and delicate treasures of life, might be crushed by the hand of pa.s.sion.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

I was surprised, when I found myself in a lofty dome, brilliantly illuminated by gas, instead of the ample flower-garden my imagination had described. I hardly know what idea I had formed; but I expected to be seated in the open air, in the midst of blossoming plants, and singing birds, and trees, on whose branches variegated lamps were burning. Ernest smiled when I told him of my disappointment.

"So it is with the illusions of life," said he. "They all pa.s.s away. The garden which you pa.s.sed before the entrance, has given its name to the place; and even that, the encroaching steps of business will trample on."

Mr. Harland escorted Meg, who was in exuberant spirits, and as usual attracted the public gaze by her das.h.i.+ng and reckless demeanor.

Conspicuous, from her superior height, her large, roving black eyes, and her opera cloak of brilliant cherry color, I felt sheltered from observation in her vicinity, and hoped that Ernest would find I could mingle in public scenes without drawing any peculiar attention. Indeed, I was so absorbed by the graceful and expressive pantomime, the novelty and variety of the scenic decorations, that I thought not where I was, or who I was. To city dwellers, a description of these would be as unnecessary as uninteresting; but perhaps some young country girl, as inexperienced as myself in fas.h.i.+onable amus.e.m.e.nts, may like to follow my glowing impressions.

One scene I remember, which had on me the effect of enchantment.

The stage represented one of those rural fetes, where the peasantry of France gather on the village green, to mingle in the exhilarating dance.

An aged couple came forward, hand in hand, in coa.r.s.e grey overcoats, wooden sabots, and flapped hats, fastened by gray handkerchiefs under their chins. Two tight ropes were stretched parallel to each other, about eight or ten feet above the stage, and extended over the parquette. A light ladder rested against them, on each side. The aged couple tottered to the ladder, and attempted to ascend; but, at the first step, they fell and rolled on the ground.

"Poor creatures!" said I, trembling for their safety. "Why will they make such a ridiculous attempt? Why will not some of the bystanders prevent them, instead of urging them with such exulting shouts?"

"They deserve to suffer for their folly," answered Ernest, laughing.

"Age should not ape the agility of youth. Perhaps they will do better than you antic.i.p.ate."

After repeated attempts and failures, they stood, balancing themselves painfully on the ropes, clinging to each other's hands, and apparently trembling with terror.

"They _will_ fall!" I exclaimed, catching hold of Ernest's arm, and covering my eyes. "I cannot bear to look at them. There! how dreadfully they stagger."

Again I covered my eyes, resolved to shut out the catastrophe of their broken necks and mangled limbs,--when thunders of acclamation shook the house; and, looking up, I beheld a transformation that seemed supernatural. The old great-coats, clumsy sabots, and hats, were scattered to the ground; and two youthful figures, glittering in white and silver, light and graceful as "feathered Mercuries," stood, hand in hand, poised on one foot, on the tight-drawn ropes. They danced. I never realized before the music of motion. Now, they floated downwards like softly rolling clouds; then vaulted upwards like two white-winged birds, with sunbeams s.h.i.+ning on their plumage. A bright, fearless smile illumined their countenances; their dark, waving locks shone in the dazzling light.