Ernest Linwood Part 60

I walked with him, the evening before his departure, in the avenue from which the snow had been swept, leaving a smooth, wintry surface below. I was wrapped in furs, and the cold, frosty air braced me like a pair of strong arms.

I had so much to say to Richard, and now I was alone with him. I walked on in silence, feeling as if words had never been invented to express our ideas.

"You will never feel the want of a father's care and affection," at length I said. "My father could not love you better if you were his own son; and surely no own brother could be dearer, Richard, than you are and ever will be to me. You must not look mournfully on the past, but forward into a brightening future."

"I have but one object in life now," he answered, "and that is, to improve the talents G.o.d has given me for the benefit of mankind. I am not conscious of any personal hope or ambition, but a strong sense of duty acts upon me, and will save me from the corrosion of disappointment and the listlessness of despair."

"But you will not always feel so, Richard. You will experience a strong reaction soon, and new-born hopes and aspirations will s.h.i.+ne gloriously to guide you upward and onward in your bright career. Think how young you are yet, Richard."

"The consciousness of youth does not always bring joy. It cannot, when youthful hopes are blighted, Gabriella. One cannot tear up at once the deep-rooted affections of years. Never was a love planted deeper, firmer than mine for you, before the soil of the heart had known the hardening winds of destiny. Start not, Gabriella, I am not going to utter one sentiment which, as a wife, you need blush to hear; but the parting hour, like that of death, is an honest one, and I must speak as I feel.

May you never know or imagine my wretchedness when I believed you to be my sister, knowing that though innocent, I had been guilty, and that I could not love you merely with a brother's love. Thank heaven! you are my cousin. Ten thousand winning sweetnesses cl.u.s.ter round this dear relations.h.i.+p. The dearest, the strongest, the purest I have ever known."

"You will know a stronger, a dearer one, dear Richard,--you do not know yet how strong."

"I shall never think of my own happiness, Gabriella, till I am a.s.sured of yours."

"Then I will try to be happy for your sake."

"And if it should be that the ties severed by misfortune and distance are never renewed, you will remain with your father, and I will make my home with you, and it will be the business of both our lives to make you happy. No flower of the green-house was ever more tenderly cherished and guarded than you shall be, best beloved of so many hearts!"

"Thank you, oh, thank you, for all your tenderness, so far beyond my worth. Friend, brother, cousin, with you and such a father to love me, I ought to be the happiest and most grateful of human beings. But tell me one thing, dear Richard, before we part; do you forgive Ernest the wrong he has done you, freely and fully?"

"From the bottom of my heart I do."

"And should we ever meet again, may I tell him so?"

"Tell him I have nothing to forgive, for, believing as he did, vengeance could not wing a bolt of wrath too red, too deadly. But I would not recall the past. Your father beckons us,--he fears the frosty evening air for you, but it has given a glowing rose to your cheeks!"

My father stood on the threshold to greet us, with that benign smile, that beautiful, winning smile that had so long been slumbering on his face, but which grew brighter and brighter every time it beamed on my soul.

The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad. Dr. Harlowe and Mr.

Somerville were with us; and though the events with which he had been a.s.sociated had somewhat sobered the doctor's mirthful propensities, the geniality of his character was triumphant over every circ.u.mstance.

My father expressed to him the most fervent grat.i.tude for his parental kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt.

"You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe; "and even if you did, and were the debt ten times beyond your grateful appreciation of it, I should consider myself repaid by the privilege of calling you my friend."

No one could speak with more feeling or dignity than the doctor, when the right chord was touched. He told me he had never seen the man he admired so much as my father; and how proud and happy it made me to have him say so, and know that his words were true! No one who has not felt as I did, the mortification, the shame and anguish of believing myself the daughter of a convicted criminal, can understand the intense, the almost wors.h.i.+pping reverence with which I regarded my late-found parent.

To feel pride instead of humiliation, exultation instead of shame, and love instead of abhorrence, how great the contrast, how unspeakable the relief, how sublime and holy the grat.i.tude!

CHAPTER LIX.

The snows of winter melted, the diamond icicles dropped from the trees, the glittering fetters slipped from the streams, and nature came forth a captive released from bondage, glowing with the joy of emanc.i.p.ation.

Nothing could be more beautiful, more glorious, than the valley in its vernal garniture. Such affluence of verdure; such rich, sweeping foliage; such graceful undulation of hill and dale; such exquisite blending of light and shade; such pure, rejoicing breezes; such blue, resplendent skies never before met, making _a tableau vivant_ on which the eye of the great Creator must look down with delight.

It was the first time Mrs. Linwood had witnessed the opening of spring at Grandison Place, and her faded spirits revived in the midst of its blooming splendor. She bad preferred its comparative retirement during the past winter, and, in spite of the solicitations of her friends, refused to go to the metropolis. My father and Julian both felt an artist's rapture at the prospect unrolled in a grand panorama around them, and transferred to the canvas many a glowing picture. It was delightful to watch the progress of these new creations,--but far more interesting when the human face was the subject of the pencil. Edith and myself were multiplied into so many charming forms, it is strange we were not made vain by gazing on them.

I was very grasping in my wishes, and wanted quite a picture gallery of my friends,--Mrs. Linwood, Edith, and Dr. Harlowe; and my indulgent father made masterly sketches of all for his exacting daughter. And thus day succeeded day, and no wave from Indian seas wafted tidings of the absent husband and son. No "Star of the East" dawned on the nightshades of my heart. And the raven voice kept echoing in my ear, "Never more, never more." There had been a terrible gale sweeping along the whole eastern coast of the Atlantic, and many a s.h.i.+p had gone down, freighted with an argosy richer than gold,--the treasures of human hearts. I did not speak my fears, but the sickness of dread settled on my spirits, in spite of the almost super-human efforts I made to shake it from them.

When my eyes were fixed on my father's paintings, I could see nothing but storm-lashed billows, wrecking s.h.i.+ps, and pale, drowning mariners. I could see that Mrs. Linwood and Edith partic.i.p.ated in my apprehensions, though they did not give them utterance. We hardly dared to look in each other's faces, lest we should betray to each other thoughts which we would, but could not conceal.

The library had been converted into my father's studio. He usually painted in the mornings as well as Julian; and in the afternoon we rode, or walked as inclination prompted, and the evenings were devoted to sewing, conversation, and music.

One afternoon, after returning from a ride about sunset, I went into the library for a book which I had left there. I never went there alone without stopping to gaze at the picture of Ernest, which every day acquired a stronger fascination. "Those eyes of a thousand meanings," as my father had said, followed me with thrilling intensity whenever I moved, and if I paused they fixed themselves on me as if never more to be withdrawn. Just now, as I entered, a crimson ray of the setting sun, struggling in through the curtained windows, fell warmly on the face, and gave it such a lifelike glow, that I actually started, as if life indeed were there.

As I have said before, the library was remote from the front part of the house, and even Margaret's loud, voluble laugh did not penetrate its deep retirement. I know not how long, but it must have been very long that I stood gazing at the picture, for the crimson ray had faded into a soft twilight haze, and the face seemed gradually receding further and further from me.

The door opened. Never, never, shall I feel as I did then till I meet my mother's spirit in another world. A pale hand rested, as if for support, on the latch of the door,--a face pale as the statues, but lighted up by eyes of burning radiance, flashed like an apparition upon me. I stood as in a nightmare, incapable of motion or utterance, and a cloud rolled over my sight. But I knew that Ernest was at my feet, that his face was buried in the folds of my dress, and his voice in deep, tremulous music, murmuring in my ear.

"Gabriella! beloved Gabriella! I am not worthy to be called thy husband; but banish me not, my own and only love!"

At the sound of that voice, my paralyzed senses burst the fetters that enthralled them, and awoke to life so keen, there was agony in the awakening. Every plan that reason had suggested and judgment approved was forgotten or destroyed, and love, all-conquering, unconquerable love, reigned over every thought, feeling, and emotion. I sunk upon my knees before him,--I encircled his neck with my arms,--I called him by every dear and tender name the vocabulary of love can furnish,--I wept upon his bosom showers of blissful and relieving tears. Thus we knelt and wept, locked in each other's arms, and again and again Ernest repeated--

"I am not worthy to be thy husband," and I answered again and again--

"I love thee, Ernest. G.o.d, who knoweth all things, knows, and he only, how I love thee."

It is impossible to describe such scenes. Those who have never known them, must deem them high-wrought and extravagant those who _have_, cold and imperfect. It is like trying to paint chain-lightning, or the coruscations of the aurora borealis. I thought not how he came. What cared I, when he was with me, when his arms were round me, his heart answering to the throbs of mine? Forgotten were suspicion, jealousy, violence, and wrong,--nothing remained but the memory of love.

As the shades of twilight deepened, his features seemed more distinct, for the mist which tears had left dissolved, and I could see how wan and shadowy he looked, and how delicate, even to sickliness, the hue of his transparent complexion. Traces of suffering were visible in every lineament, but they seemed left by the ground-swell of pa.s.sion, rather than its deeper ocean waves.

"You have seen your mother?" at length I said, feeling that I must no longer keep him from her, "and Edith? And oh, Ernest! have you seen my father? Do you know I have a father, whom I glory in acknowledging? Do you know that the cloud is removed from my birth, the stigma from my name? Oh, my husband, mine is a strange, eventful history!"

"Mr. Brahan told me of the discovery of your father, and of the death of his unhappy brother. I have not seen him yet. But my mother! When I left her, Gabriella, she had not one silver hair. _My_ hand sprinkled that premature snow."

"It matters not now, dear Ernest," I cried, pained by the torturing sighs that spoke the depth of his remorse. "Flowers will bloom sweetly under that light snow. Edith is happy. We will all be happy,--my father too,--come and see him, Ernest,--come, and tell me, if I have need to blush for my lineage."

"Not for your lineage, but your husband. What must this n.o.ble father think of me?"

"Every thing that is kind and Christian. He has sustained my faith, fed my hopes, and prophesied this hour of reunion. Come, the moment you have seen him, you will trust, revere, and love him."

With slow and lingering steps we walked the winding gallery that led from the library, and entered the parlor, whose lights seemed dazzling in contrast to the soft gloom we had left behind.

Hand in hand we approached my father, who stood with his back to one of the windows, his tall and stately figure n.o.bly defined. I tried to utter the words, "My husband! my father!" but my parted lips were mute. I threw myself into his arms, with a burst of emotion that was irrepressible, and he grasped the hand of Ernest and welcomed and blest him in warm, though faltering accents. Then Edith came with her sweet April face, and hung once more upon her brother's neck, and his mother again embraced him, and Julian walked to the window and looked abroad, to hide the tears which he thought a stain upon his manhood.

It was not till after the excitement of the hour had subsided, that we realized how weak and languid Ernest really was. He was obliged to confess how much he had suffered from illness and fatigue, and that his strength was completely exhausted. As he reclined on one of the sofas, the crimson hue of the velvet formed such a startling contrast to the pallor of his complexion, it gave him an appearance almost unearthly.

"You have been ill, my son," said Mrs. Linwood, watching him with intense anxiety.

"I have been on the confines of the spirit world, my mother; so near as to see myself by the light it reflected. Death is the solar microscope of life. It shows a hideous ma.s.s, where all seemed fair and pure."

He laid his hand over his eyes with a nervous shudder.

"But I am well now," he added; "I am only suffering from fatigue and excitement. Gabriella's letter found me leaning over the grave. It raised me, restored me, brought me back to life, to hope, to love, and home."