She kissed me, and told me to bathe my eyes and come right down, her mother said I must. Ernest had inquired what had become of me, and he would think it strange if I hid myself in this way.

"And you have seen him, Gabriella," she cried, and her tongue ran glibly while I plunged my face in a basin of cold water, ashamed of the traces of selfish sorrow. "You have seen my own dear brother Ernest. And only think of your getting the first glimpse of him! What did you think of him? What do you think of him now? Is he not handsome? Is there not something very striking, very attractive about him? Is he not different from any one you ever saw before?"

"There is something very striking in his appearance," I answered, smiling at the number and rapidity of her questions, "but I was so disconcerted, so foolish, I hardly dared to look him in the face. Has he changed since you saw him last?"

"Not much,—rather paler, I think; but perhaps it is only fatigue, or the languor following intense excitement. I feel myself as if all my strength were gone. I cannot describe my sensations when I saw him standing in the open gateway. I let mamma get out first. I thought it was her right to receive the first embrace of welcome; but when he turned to me, I threw myself on his neck, discarding my crutches, and clung to him, just as I used to do when a little, helpless, suffering child. And would you believe it, Gabriella? he actually shed tears. I did not expect so much sensibility. I feared the world had hardened him,—but it has not. Make haste and come down with me. I long to look at him again. Here, let me put back this scarlet geranium. You do not know how pretty it looks. Brother said—no—I will not tell you what he said. Yes, I will. He said he had no idea the charming young girl, with such a classic face and aristocratic bearing, was mother's little protegee."

"You asked him, Edith, I know you did."

"Supposing I did,—there was no harm in it. Come, I want you to see mamma; she looks so young and handsome. Joy is such a beautifier."

"I think it is," said I, as I gazed at her star-bright eyes and blush-rose cheeks. We entered the drawing-room together, where Ernest was seated on the sofa by his mother, with her hand clasped in his. Edith was right,—she did look younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her. She was usually pale and her face was calm. Now a breeze had stirred the waters, and the sunshine quivered on the rippling surface.

They rose as we entered, and came forward to meet us. My old trepidation returned. Would Mrs. Linwood introduce me,—and if she did, in what manner? Would there be any thing in her air or countenance to imply that I was a dependent on her bounty, rather than an adopted daughter of the household? Hush,—these proud whispers. Listen, how kindly she speaks.

"My dear Gabriella, this is my son, Ernest. You know it already, and he knows that you are the child of my adoption. Nevertheless, I must introduce you to each other."

Surprised and touched by the maternal kindness of her manner, (I ought not to have been surprised, for she was always kind,) I looked up, and I know that gratitude and sensibility passed from my heart to my eyes.

"I must claim the privilege of an adopted brother," said he, extending his hand, and I thought he smiled. Perhaps I was mistaken. His countenance had a way of suddenly lighting up, which I learned to compare to sunshine breaking through clouds. The hand in which he took mine was so white, so delicately moulded, it looked as if it might have belonged to a woman,—but he was a student, the heir of wealth, not the son of labor, the inheritor of the primeval curse. It is a trifle to mention,—the hand of an intellectual man,—but I had been so accustomed to the large, muscular fingers of Mr. Regulus, which seemed formed to wield the weapon of authority, that I could not but notice the contrast.

How pleasantly, how delightfully the evening passed away! I sat in my favorite recess, half shaded by the light drapery of the window; while Ernest took a seat at his mother's side, and Edith occupied a low ottoman at his feet. One arm was thrown across his lap, and her eyes were lifted to his face with an expression of the most idolizing affection. And all the while he was talking, his hand passed caressingly over her fair flaxen hair, or lingered amidst its glistering ringlets. It was a beautiful picture of sisterly and fraternal love,—the fairest I had ever seen. The fairest! it was the first, the only one. I had never realized before the exceeding beauty and holiness of this tender tie. As I looked upon Edith in her graceful, endearing attitude, so expressive of dependence and love, many a sentence descriptive of a brother's tenderness floated up to the surface of memory. I remembered part of a beautiful hymn,—

"Fair mansions in my Father's house For all his children wait; And I, your elder brother go, To open wide the gate."

The Saviour of mankind called himself our brother,—stamping with the seal of divinity the dear relationship.

I had imagined I felt for Richard Clyde a sister's regard. No, no! Cold were my sentiments to those that beamed in Edith's upturned eyes.

Ernest described his travels, his life abroad, and dwelt on the peculiarities of German character, its high, imaginative traits, its mysticism and superstition, till his tongue warmed into enthusiasm,—and one of his hearers at least felt the inspiration of his eloquence. His mother had said he was reserved! I began to think I did not know the right meaning of the word. If he paused and seemed about to relapse into silence, Edith would draw a long breath, as if she had just been inhaling some exhilarating gas, and exclaim,—

"Oh! do go on, brother; it is so long since we have heard you talk; it is such a luxury to hear a person talk, who really says something."

"I never care about talking, unless I do have something to say," he answered, "but I think I have monopolized attention long enough. As a guest, I have a right to be entertained. Have you forgotten my love for music, Edith?"

"O no! I remember all your favorite airs, and have played them a thousand times at least. Do you wish to hear me now?"

"Certainly, I do; I have heard nothing so sweet as your voice, dear Edith, since I heard your last parting song."

He rose and moved the harp forward, and seated her at the instrument.

"Does not Miss Lynn play?" he asked, running his fingers carelessly over the glittering strings.

"Who is Miss Lynn?" repeated Edith, with a look of inquiry.

I laughed at her surprise and my own. It was the first time I had ever heard myself called so, and I looked round involuntarily to see who and where "Miss Lynn" was.

"Oh, Gabriella!" cried Edith, "I did not know whom you meant. I assure you, brother, there is no Miss Lynn here; it is Gabriella—our Gabriella—that is her name; you must not call her by any other."

"I shall be happy to avail myself of the privilege of uttering so charming a name. Does Miss Gabriella play?"

"No, no, that is not right yet, Ernest; you must drop the Miss. Do not answer him, Gabriella, till he knows his lesson better."

"Does Gabriella play?"

The name came gravely and melodiously from his tongue. The distance between us seemed wonderfully diminished by the mere breathing my Christian name.

"I do not," I answered, "but my love of music amounts to a passion. I am never so happy as when listening to Edith's voice and harp."

"She has never taken lessons," said Edith; "if she had, she would have made a splendid musician, I am confident she would. Dear mother, when we go to the city next winter, Gabriella must go with us, and she must have music-masters, and we will play and sing together. She has taught in that old academy long enough, I am sure she has."

"I think Gabriella has been taking some very important lessons herself, while teaching in the old academy, which chances to be quite new, at least her part of it," answered Mrs. Linwood; "but I have no intention of suffering her to remain there too long; she has borne the discipline admirably."

As I turned a grateful glance to Mrs. Linwood, my heart throbbing with delight at the prospect of emancipation, I met the eyes, the earnest, perusing eyes of her son. I drew back further into the shadow of the curtain, but the risen moon was shining upon my face, and silvering the lace drapery that floated round me. Edith whispered something to her brother, glancing towards me her smiling eyes, then sweeping her fingers lightly over the harp-strings, began one of the songs that Ernest loved.

Sweetly as she always sang, I had never heard her sing so sweetly before. It seemed indeed "Joy's ecstatic trial," so airily her fingers sparkled over the chords, so clearly and cheerily she warbled each animated note.

"I know you love sad songs best, Ernest, but I cannot sing them to-night," she said, pushing the instrument from her.

"There is a little German air, which I think I may recollect," said he, drawing the harp towards him.

"You, Ernest!" cried Edith and his mother in the same breath, "you play on the harp!"

He smiled at their astonishment.

"I took lessons while in Germany. A fellow-student taught me,—a glorious musician, and a native of the land of music,—Italy. There, the very atmosphere breathes of harmony."

The very first note he called forth, I felt a master's touch was on the chords, and leaning forward I held my breath to listen. The strains rose rich and murmuring like an ocean breeze, then died away soft as wave falls on wave in the moonlight night. He sang a simple, pathetic air, with such deep feeling, such tender, passionate emotion, that tears involuntarily moistened my eyes. All the slumbering music of my being responded. It was thus I could sing,—I could play,—I knew I could. And when he rose and resumed his seat by his mother, I could scarcely restrain myself from touching the same chords,—the chords still quivering from his magic hand.

"O brother!" exclaimed Edith, "what a charming surprise! I never heard any thing so thrillingly sweet! You do not know how happy you have made me. One more,—only one more,—Ernest."

"You forget your brother is from a long and weary journey, Edith, and we have many an evening before us, I trust, of domestic joy like this," said Mrs. Linwood, ringing for the night-lamps. "To-morrow is the hallowed rest-day of the Lord, and our hearts, so long restless from expectation, will feel the grateful calm of assured happiness. One who returns after a long journey to the bosom of home, in health and safety, has peculiar calls for gratitude and praise. He should bless the God of the traveller for having given his angels charge concerning him, and shielding him from unknown dangers. You feel all this, my son."

She looked at him with an anxious, questioning glance. She feared that the mysticism of Germany might have obscured the brightness of his Christian faith.

"I am grateful, my mother," he answered with deep seriousness, "grateful to God for the blessings of this hour. This has been one of the happiest evenings of my life. Surely it is worth years of absence to be welcomed to such a home, and by such pure, loving hearts,—hearts in which I can trust without hypocrisy and without guile."

"Believe all hearts true, my son, till you prove them false."

"Faith is a gift of heaven, not an act of human will," he replied. Then I remembered what Richard Clyde had said of him, and I thought of it again when alone in my chamber.

Edith peeped in through the door that divided our rooms.

"Have we not had a charming evening?" she asked.

"Yes, very," I answered.

"How fond you are of that little adverb very," she exclaimed with a laugh; "you make it sound so expressively. Well, is not Ernest very interesting?"

"Very."

"The most interesting person you ever saw?"

"You question me too closely, Edith. It will not do for me to speak as extravagantly as you do. I am not his sister, and the praise that falls so sweetly from your tongue, would sound bold and inappropriate from mine. I never knew before how strong a sister's love could be, Edith. Surely you can never feel a stronger passion."

"Never," she cried earnestly, and coming in, she sat down on the side of the bed and unbound the ribbon from her slender waist. "The misfortune that has set me apart from my youthful companions will prevent me from indulging in the dreams of love. I know my mother does not wish me to marry, and I have never thought of the possibility of leaving her. I would not dare to give this frail frame and too tenderly indulged heart into the keeping of one who could never, never bestow the love, the boundless love, which has surrounded me from infancy, like the firmament of heaven. I have been sought in marriage more than once, it might be for reputed wealth or for imagined charms; but when I compared my would-be lovers to Ernest, they faded into such utter insignificance, I could scarcely pardon their presumption. I do not think he has ever loved himself. I do not think he has ever seen one worthy of his love. I believe it would kill me, Gabriella, to know that he loved another better than myself."

For the first time I thought Edith selfish, and that she carried the romance of sisterly affection too far.

"You wish him, then, to be an old bachelor!" said I, smiling.

"Oh! don't apply to him such a horrid name. I did not think of that. Good night, darling. Mamma would scold me, if she knew I was up talking nonsense, instead of being in bed and asleep, like a good, obedient child." She kissed me and retired but it was long before I fell asleep.



CHAPTER XVII.

The next morning, as I was coming up the steps with my white muslin apron fall of gathered flowers, I met Ernest Linwood. I was always an early riser. Dear, faithful Peggy had taught me this rural habit, and I have reason to bless her for it.

"I see where you get your roses," said he; I knew he did not mean the roses in my apron, and those to which he alluded grew brighter as he spoke.

"Am I indebted to you for the beautiful flowers in my own apartment?" he asked, as he turned back and entered the house with me, "or was it Edith's sisterly hand placed them there?"

"Are you pleased with them?" I said, with a childish delight. It seemed to me a great thing that he had noticed them at all. "As Edith is lame, she indulges me in carrying out her own sweet tastes. I assure you I esteem it an inestimable privilege."

"You love flowers, then?"

"O yes, passionately. I have almost an idolatrous love for them."

"And does it not make you sad to see them wither away, in spite of your passionate love?"

"Yes, but others bloom in their stead. 'T is but a change from blossom to blossom."

"You deceive yourself," he said, and there was something chilling in his tone, "it is not love you feel for them, for that is unchangeable, and admits but one object."

"I was not speaking of human love," I answered, busily arranging the flowers in their vases, in which I had already placed some icy cold water. He walked up and down the room, stopping occasionally to observe the process, and making some passing remark. I was astonished at finding myself so much at ease. I suppose the awe he inspired, like the fear of ghosts, subsided at the dawning of morning. There was something so exhilarating in the pure fresh air, in the dewy brightness of the hour, in the exercise of roaming through a wilderness of sweets, that my spirits were too elastic to be held down. He seemed to take an interest in watching me, and even altered the position of some white roses, which he said wanted a shading of green.

"And what are these beautiful clusters laid aside for?" he asked, taking up some which I had deposited on the table.

"I thought," I answered, after a slight hesitation, "that Edith would like them for your room."

"Then it is only to please Edith you place them there, not to please yourself?"

"I should not dare to do it to please myself," I hastily replied.

I thought I must have said something wrong, for he turned away with a peculiar smile. I colored with vexation, and was glad that Edith came in to divert his attention from me.

Nothing could be more gentle and affectionate than his greeting. He went up and kissed her, as if she were a little child, put his arm round her, and taking one of her crutches, made her lean on him for support. I understood something of the secret of her idolatry.

Where was the impenetrable reserve of which his mother had spoken?

I had not yet seen him in society. As he talked with Edith, his head slightly bent and his profile turned towards me, I could look at him unobserved, and I was struck even more than the evening before with the transparent paleness of his complexion. Dark, delicate, and smooth as alabaster, it gave an air of extreme refinement and sensibility to his face, without detracting from its manliness or intellectual power. It was a face to peruse, to study, to think of,—it was a baffling, haunting face. Hieroglyphics of thought were there, too mysterious for the common eye to interpret. It was a dark lantern, flashing light before it, itself all in shadow.

"It is a shame that you must leave us, Gabriella," said Edith, when after breakfast her pony was brought to the door. "Ernest," added she, turning to him, "I am so glad you are come. You must persuade mamma to lay her commands on Gabriella, and not permit her to make such a slave of herself. I feel guilty to be at home doing nothing and she toiling six long hours."

"It is Gabriella's own choice," cried Mrs. Linwood, a slight flush crossing her cheek. "Is it not, my child?"

"Your wisdom guided my choice, dear madam," I answered, "and I thank you for it."

"It would seem more natural to think of Miss—of Gabriella—as a pupil, than a teacher," observed Ernest, "if youth is the criterion by which we judge."

"I am seventeen—in my eighteenth year," said I eagerly, urged by an unaccountable desire that he should not think me too young.

"A very grave and reverend age!" said he sarcastically.

I thought Mrs. Linwood looked unusually serious, and fearing I had said something wrong, I hastened to depart. Dearly as I loved my benefactress, it was not "that perfect love which casteth out fear." As her benevolence was warm, her justice was inflexible. Hers was the kind hand, but the firm nerves that could sustain a friend, while the knife of the surgeon entered the quivering flesh. She shrunk not from inflicting pain, if it was for another's good; but if she wounded with one hand, she strewed balm with the other. Her influence was strong, controlling, almost irresistible. Like the sunshine that forced the wind-blown traveller to throw aside his cloak, the warmth of her kindness penetrated, but it also compelled.

I had a growing conviction that though she called me her adopted child, she did not wish me to presume upon her kindness so far as to look upon her son in the familiar light of a brother. There was no fear of my transgressing her wishes in this respect. I had already lost my dread,—my awe was melting away, but I could no more approach him with familiarity than if fourfold bars of gold surrounded him. I had another conviction, that she encouraged and wished me to return the attachment of Richard Clyde. Her urgent advice had induced me to accept the proffered correspondence with him,—a compliance which I afterwards bitterly regretted. He professed to write only as a friend, according to the bond, but amid the evergreen wreath of friendship, he concealed the glowing flowers of love. He was to return home in a few weeks. The commencement was approaching, which was to liberate him from scholastic fetters and crown him with the honors of manhood.

"Why," thought I, "should Richard make me dread his return, when I would gladly welcome him with joy? Why in wishing to be more than a friend, does he make me desire that he should be less? And now Ernest Linwood is come back, of whom he so strangely warned me, methinks I dread him more than ever."

Mrs. Linwood would attend the commencement. I had heard her tell Richard so. I had heard her repeat her intention since her son's return. He, of course, would feel interested in meeting his old class mates and friends. They would all feel interested in seeing and hearing how Richard Clyde sustained his proud distinction.

"Gabriella, especially," said Edith with a smile, which, sweet as it was, I thought extremely silly. I blushed with vexation, when Ernest, lifting his grave eyes from his book, asked who was Richard Clyde.

"You have seen him when he was quite a youth," answered his mother, "but have probably forgotten him. He is a young man of great promise, and has been awarded the first honors of his class. I feel a deep interest in him for his own sake, and moreover I am indebted to him for my introduction to our own Gabriella."

"Indeed!" repeated her son, and glancing towards me, his countenance lighted up with a sudden look of intelligence.

Why need Mrs. Linwood have said that? Why need she have associated him so intimately and significantly with me? And why could I not keep down the rising crimson, which might be attributed to another source than embarrassment? I opened my lips to deny any interest in Richard beyond that of friendly acquaintanceship; but Mrs. Linwood's mild, serene, yet resolute eyes, beat mine down and choked my eager utterance.

Her eyes said as clearly as words could say, "what matters it to my son, how little or how great an interest you feel in Richard Clyde or any other person?"

"You must accompany us, Gabriella," she said, with great kindness. "You have never witnessed this gathering of the literati of our State, and I know of no one who would enjoy it more. It will be quite an intellectual banquet."

"I thank you, but I cannot accept the invitation," I answered, suppressing a sigh, not of disappointment at the necessity of refusal, but of mortification at the inference that would probably be drawn from this conversation. "My vacation does not begin till afterwards."

"I think I can intercede with Mr. Regulus to release you," said Mrs. Linwood.

"Thank you,—I do not wish to go,—indeed I would much rather not, unless," I added, fearful I had spoken too energetically, "you have an urgent desire that I should."

"I wish very much to make you happy, and I think you would enjoy far more than you now anticipate. But there is time enough to decide. There will be a fortnight hence."

"But the dresses, mamma," cried Edith; "you know she will need new dresses if she goes, and they will require some time to prepare."

"As Gabriella will not come out, as it is called, till next winter," replied Mrs. Linwood, "it is not a matter of so much consequence as you imagine. Simplicity is much more charming than ornament in the dress of a very young girl."

"I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting his eyes from his book, "especially where artificial ornaments are superfluous."

"I did not think you were listening to our remarks about dress," said Edith. "This is something quite new, brother."

"I am not listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful not to betray yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had better retire to the library, then you can discuss with more freedom the mysteries of the toilet and the fascinations of dress."

"No,—no. We have nothing to say that you may not hear;" but he rose and withdrew. Did he mean to imply that "artificial ornaments would be superfluous" to me? No,—it was only a general remark, and it would be vanity of vanities to apply it to myself.

"I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella," continued Edith. "Please lay aside your mourning and assume a more cheerful garb. You have worn it two long years. Only think how long! It will be so refreshing to see you in white or delicate colors."

I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow typified by their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The awful scenes they commemorated,—the throes of agony which rent away life from the strong, the slow wasting of the feeble, the solemnity of death, the gloom of the grave, the anguish of bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that followed,—all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment.

"I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," I exclaimed; and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears gushed unrestrainedly. "I shall never cease to mourn for my mother."

"I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, putting her arms round me with sympathizing tenderness. "I thought time had softened your anguish, and that you could bear to speak of it now."

"And so she ought," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of mild rebuke. "Time is God's ministering angel, commissioned to bind up the wounds of sorrow and to heal the bleeding heart. The same natural law which bids flowers to spring up and adorn the grave-sod causes the blossoms of hope to bloom again in the bosom of bereavement. Memory should be immortal, but mourning should last but a season."

"I meant that I never should forget her," I cried, my tears flowing gently under her subduing accents. "Dear Mrs. Linwood, you have made it impossible for me always to mourn. Yet there are times, when her remembrance comes over me with such a power that I am borne down by it to the level of my first deep anguish. These are not frequent now. I some times fear there is danger of my being too happy after sustaining such a loss."

"Beware, my dear child, of cherishing the morbid sensibility which believes happiness inconsistent with the remembrance of departed friends. Life to your mother, since your recollection of her, was a sad boon. As she possessed the faith, and died the death of the Christian, you are authorized to believe that she now possesses an exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Can you take in the grandeur of the idea,—a weight of glory? Contrast it with the burden of care under which you saw her crushed, and you will then be willing to exchange mourning for the oil of joy, and the spirit of heaviness for the garment of praise."

"I am willing, dear Mrs. Linwood, my kindest friend, my second mother. I will in all things be guided by your counsel and moulded by your will. No, oh no, I would not for worlds rob my mother of the glorious inheritance purchased by a Saviour's blood. But tell me one thing,—must we all pass through tribulation before entering the kingdom of heaven? Must we all travel with bleeding feet the thorny path of suffering, before being admitted into the presence of God?"

"The Bible must answer you, my child. Do you remember, in the apocalyptic vision, when it was asked, 'What are these, which are arrayed in white robes? and whence come they?' It was answered, 'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"

"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them."

I remembered them well.

"Go on," I said, "that is not all."

"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat."

She paused, and her voice became tremulous from deep emotion.

"One verse more," I cried, "only one."

"For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."

There was silence for a few moments. All words seemed vain and sacrilegious after this sublimest language of revelation.

At length I said,—

"Let me wear white, the livery of my mother, in heaven. 'T is a sin to mourn for her whose tears the hand of God has wiped away."



CHAPTER XVIII.

One week, and another week passed by, and every evening was as charming as the first of the return of Ernest Linwood. In that fortnight were compressed the social and intellectual joys of a lifetime. Music, reading, and conversation filled the measure of the evening hours. Such music, such reading, and such conversation as I never heard before. I had been accustomed to read aloud a great deal to my own dear mother, to Mrs. Linwood, and to my young pupils also, and I had reason to think I could read remarkably well; but I could not read like Ernest,—I never heard any one that could. He infused his own soul into the soul of the author, and brought out his deepest meanings. When he read poetry I sat like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music. Mrs. Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but listen. I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek.

"You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated glance.

"Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the passion of my soul."

"You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry," said he, with a smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my language, "which is the regal one, the passion of passions?"

"I can hardly imagine the existence of one without the other," I answered, "their harmony is so entire; flowers are silent poetry, and poetry is written music."

"And music?" he asked.

"Is the breath of heaven, the language of angels. As the voice of Echo lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, when her beauteous frame had vanished, so music remains to show the angel nature we have lost."

I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion warmed my soul.

"Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, "and may well speak of the magic of numbers. She has a portfolio, filled with papers written, like Ezekiel's scroll, within and without. I wish you would let me get it, Gabriella,—do."

"Impossible!" I answered, "I never wrote but one poem for exhibition, and the experience of that hour was sufficient for a lifetime."

"You were but a child then, Gabriella. Mr. Regulus would give it a very different reception now, I know he would," said Edith.

"If it is a child's story, will you not relate it?" asked Ernest; "you have excited my curiosity."

"Curiosity, brother, I thought you possessed none."

"Interest is a better word. If I understand aright, the buddings of Gabriella's genius met with an untimely blight."

I know not how it was, but I felt in an exceedingly ingenuous mood, and I related this episode in my childish history without reserve. I touched lightly on the championship of Richard Clyde, but I was obliged to introduce it. I had forgotten that he was associated with the narration, or I should have been silent.

"This youthful knight, and the hero of commencement day are one, then," observed Ernest. "He is a fortunate youth, with the myrtle and the laurel both entwining his brows; you must be proud of your champion."

"I am grateful to him," I replied, resolved to make a bold effort to remove the impression I knew he had received. Mrs. Linwood was not present, or I could not have spoken as I did. "He defended me because he thought I was oppressed; he befriended me because my friends were few. He has the generous spirit of chivalry which cannot see wrong without seeking to redress it, or suffering without wishing to relieve it. I am under unspeakable obligations to him, for he it was who spoke kindly of the obscure little girl to your mother and sister, and obtained for me the priceless blessing of their love."

"I dare say they feel very grateful to him, likewise," said he, in a tone of genuine feeling. "I acknowledge my share of the obligation. But is he so disinterested as to claim no recompense, or does he find that chivalry, like goodness, is its own exceeding great reward?"

"I thought I regarded him as a brother, till now Edith has convinced me I am mistaken."

"How so?" he asked, with so peculiar an expression, I forgot what I was going to say.

"How so?" he repeated, while Edith leaned towards him and laid her hand on his.

"By showing me how strong and fervent a sister's love can be."

His eyes flashed; they looked like fountains of light, full to overflowing. His arm involuntarily encircled Edith, and a smile, beautiful as a woman's, curled his lips.

"How he does love her!" thought I; "strong indeed must be the counter charm, that can rival hers."

I had never seen his spirits so light as they were the remainder of the evening. They rose even to gaiety; and again I wondered what had become of the reserve and moodiness whose dark shadow had preceded his approach.

"We are so happy now," said Edith, when we were alone, "I dread the interruption of company. Ernest does not care for it, and if it be of an uncongenial kind, he wraps himself in a mantle of reserve, that neither sun nor wind can unfold. After commencement, our house will be overflowing with city friends. They will return with us, and we shall not probably be alone again for the whole summer."

She sighed at the anticipation, and I echoed the sound. I was somebody now; but what a nobody I should dwindle into, in comparison with the daughters of wealth and fashion who would gather at Grandison Place!

"Ernest must like you very much, Gabriella, or he would not show the interest he does in all that concerns you. You do not know what a compliment he pays you, because you have not seen him in company with other young girls. I have sometimes felt quite distressed at his indifference when they have been my guests. He has such a contempt for affectation and display, that he cannot entirely conceal it. He is not apt to express his opinion of any one, but there are indirect ways of discovering it. I found him this morning in the library, standing before that beautiful picture of the Italian flower girl, which you admire so much. He was so absorbed, that he did not perceive my entrance, till I stole behind him and laid my hand on his shoulder. 'Do you not see a likeness?' he asked. 'To whom?' 'To Gabriella.' 'To Gabriella!' I repeated. 'Yes, it is like her, but I never observed it before.' 'A very striking resemblance,' he said, 'only she has more mind in her face.'"

"That enchanting picture like me!" I exclaimed, "impossible! There is, there can be no likeness. It is nothing but association. He knows I am the flower-girl of the house, and that is the reason he thought of me."

I tried to speak with indifference, but my voice trembled with delight.

The next morning, when I came in from the garden, all laden with flowers, an irresistible impulse drew me to the library. It was very early. The hush of repose still lingered over the household, and that particular apartment, in which the silent eloquence of books, paintings, and statues hung like a solemn spell, seemed in such deep quietude, I started at the light echo of my own footsteps.

I stole with guilty consciousness towards the picture, in whose lineaments the fastidious eye of Ernest Linwood had traced a similitude to mine. They were all engraven on my memory, but now they possessed a new fascination; and I stood before it, gazing into the soft, dark depths of the eyes, in which innocent mildness and bashful tenderness were mingled like the clare-obscure of an Italian moonlight; gazing on the dawning smile that seemed to play over the beautiful and glowing lips, and the bright, rich, dark hair, so carelessly, gracefully arranged you could almost see the balmy breezes of her native clime rustling amid the silken tresses; on the charming contour of the head and neck, slightly turned as if about to look back and give a parting glance at the garden she had reluctantly quitted.

As I thus stood, with my hands loaded with blossoms, a flower basket suspended from my arm, and a straw hat such as shepherdesses wear, on my head,—my garden costume,—involuntarily imitating the attitude of the lovely flower girl, the door, which had been left ajar, silently opened, and Ernest Linwood entered.

Had I been detected in the act of stealing or counterfeiting money, I could not have felt more intense shame. He knew what brought me there. I saw it in his penetrating eye, his half-suppressed smile; and, ready to sink with mortification, I covered my face with the roses I held in my hands.

"Do you admire the picture?" he asked, advancing to where I stood; "do you perceive the resemblance?"

I shook my head without answering; I was too much disconcerted to speak. What would he think of my despicable vanity, my more than childish foolishness?

"I am glad to see we have congenial tastes," he said, with a smile in his voice. "I came on purpose to gaze on that charming representation of youth and innocence, without dreaming that its original was by it."

"Original!" I repeated. "Surely you do mock me,—'t is but a fancy sketch,—and in nought but youth and flowers resembles me."

"We cannot see ourselves, and it is well we cannot. The image reflected from the mirror is but a cold, faint shadow of the living, breathing soul. But why this deep confusion,—that averted face and downcast eye? Have I offended by my intrusion? Do you wish me to withdraw, and yield to you the privilege of solitary admiration?"

"It is I who am the intruder," I answered, looking wistfully towards the door, through which I was tempted to rush at once. "I thought you had not risen,—I thought,—I came"—

"And why did you come at this hour, Gabriella? and what has caused such excessive embarrassment? Will you not be ingenuous enough to tell me?"

"I will," answered I, calmed by the gentle composure of his manner, "if you will assert that you do not know already."

"I do not know, but I can imagine. Edith has betrayed my admiration of that picture. You came to justify my taste, and to establish beyond a doubt the truth of the likeness."

"No, indeed! I did not; I cannot explain the impulse which led me hither. I only wish I had resisted it as I ought."

I suppose I must have looked quite miserable, from the efforts he made to restore my self-complacency. He took the basket from my arm and placed it on the table, moved a chair forward for me, and another for himself, as if preparing for a morning tete a tete.

"What would Mrs. Linwood say, if she saw me here at this early hour alone with her son?" thought I, obeying his motion, and tossing my hat on the light stairs that were winding up behind me. I did not fell the possibility of declining the interview, for there was a power about him which overmastered without their knowing it the will of others.

"If you knew how much more pleasing is the innocent shame and artless sensibility you manifest, than the ease and assurance of the practised worldling, you would not blush for the impulse which drew you hither. To the sated taste and weary eye, simplicity and truth are refreshing as the spring-time of nature after its dreary winter. The cheek that blushes, the eye that moistens, and the heart that palpitates, are sureties of indwelling purity and candor. What a pity that they are as evanescent as the bloom of these flowers and the fragrance they exhale! You have never been in what is called the great world?"

"Never. I passed one winter in Boston; but I was in deep mourning and did not go into society. Besides, your mother thought me too young. It was more than a year ago."

"You will be considered old enough this winter. Do you not look forward with eager anticipations and bright hopes to the realization of youth's golden dreams?"

"I as often look forward with dread as hope. I am told they who see much of the world, lose their faith in human virtue, their belief in sincerity, their implicit trust in what seems good and fair. All the pleasures of the world would not be an equivalent for the loss of these."

"And do you possess all these now?"

"I think I do. I am sure I ought. I have never yet been deceived. I should doubt that the setting sun would rise again, as soon as the truth of those who have professed to love me. Your mother, Edith—and"—

"Richard Clyde," he added, with a smile, and that truth-searching glance which often brought unbidden words to my lips.

"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."

"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"

"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,—even supposing your assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if I turn inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have you, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling influences which you deprecate for me?"

"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you never been told so?"

"If I have, it required your own assertion to make me believe it."

"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,—just as much as the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."

I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them unconsciously on the floor.

"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.

"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.

"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."

"I know it; but I can remove the ruins."

I was quite distressed at the turn the conversation had taken. I could not bear to think that one to whom the Creator had been so bountiful of his gifts, should appreciate so little the blessings given. He, to talk of shadows, in the blazing noonday of fortune; to pant with thirst, when wave swelling after wave of pure crystal water wooed with refreshing coolness his meeting lips.

Oh, starver in the midst of God's plenty! think of the wretched sons of famine, and be wise.

"You must have a strange power over me," said he, rising and walking to one of the alcoves, in which the books were arranged. "Seldom indeed do I allude to my own individuality. Forget it. I have been very happy lately. My soul, like a high mountain, lifts itself into the sunshine, leaving the vapors and clouds rolling below. I have been breathing an atmosphere pure and fresh as the world's first morning, redolent with the fragrance of Eden's virgin blossoms."

He paused a moment, then approaching his own portrait, glanced from it to the flower girl, and back again from the flower girl to his own image.

"Clouds and sunshine," he exclaimed, "flowers and thorns; such is the union nature loves. And is it not well? Clouds temper the dazzle of the sunbeams,—thorns protect the tender flowers. Have you read many of these books?" he asked, with a sudden transition.

"A great many," I answered, unspeakably relieved to hear him resume his natural tone and manner; "too many for my mind's good."

"How so? These are all select works,—golden sheaves of knowledge, gathered from the chaff and bound by the reaping hand."

"I mean that I cannot read with moderation. My rapid eye takes in more than my judgment can criticize or my memory retain. That is one reason why I like to hear another read. Sound does not travel with the rapidity of light, and then the echo lingers in the ear."

"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by the hand of God, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright."

"Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever thus read?"

I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,—it was so rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the passing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that deep, under chord, which breathes in low, passionate strains, life's tender and pathetic mirror.

"I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's various climes are around and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at your bidding, and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold. And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human heart are laid bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. But I am detaining you too long. Your languid blossoms reproach me. When you come here again, do not forget that we have here thought and felt in unison."

Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. She started on seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an anxious, troubled look.

"You are become an early riser, my son," she said.

"You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my mother?"

"Certainly; but it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning air would be more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp with the mould of antiquity."

"We have brought the dewy morning within doors," said he; while I, gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Linwood to move, that I might leave the room. She stood between me and the threshold, and for the first time I noticed in her face a resemblance to her son. It might be because a slight cloud rested on her brow.

"You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morning," she gravely observed to me. "It is almost the breakfast hour, and you are still in your garden costume."

My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the fear of her displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left its glow upon my cheek.

"Let me assist you," he cried, in an animated tone. "It was I who encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, if blame indeed there be. There is a homely proverb, that 'many hands make light work.' Come, let us prove its truth."

I thought Mrs. Linwood sighed, as he followed me into the drawing-room, and with quick, graceful fingers, made ample amends for the negligence be had caused. His light, careless manner restored me to ease, and at breakfast Mrs. Linwood's countenance wore its usual expression of calm benevolence.

Had I done wrong? I had sought no clandestine interview. Why should I? It was foolish to wish to look at the beautiful flower girl; but it was a natural, innocent wish, born of something purer and better than vanity and self-love.



CHAPTER XIX.

I lingered after school was dismissed, to ask permission of Mr. Regulus to attend the commencement. It was Mrs. Linwood's wish, and of course a law to me.

"Will you release me one week before the session closes?" I asked, "Mrs. Linwood does not wish to leave me behind, but I do not care much to go."

"Of course I will release you, my child, but it will seem as if the flower season were past when you are gone. I wonder now, how I ever taught without your assistance. I wonder what I shall do when you leave me?"

"Mrs. Linwood wished me to say to you," said I, quite touched by his kind, affectionate manner, "that she does not wish me to renew our engagement. She will take me to town next winter, satisfied for the present with the discipline I have experienced under your guardian care."

"So soon!" he exclaimed, "I was not prepared for this."

"So soon, Mr. Regulus? I have been with you one long year."

"It may have seemed long to you, but it has been short as a dream to me. A very pleasant time has it been, too pleasant to last."

He took up his dark, formidable ferula, and leaned his forehead thoughtfully upon it.

"And it has been pleasant to me, Mr. Regulus. I dreaded it very much at first, but every step I have taken in the path of instruction has been made smooth and green beneath my feet. No dull, lagging hour has dragged me backward in my daily duties. The dear children have been good and affectionate, and you, my dear master, have crowned me with loving kindness from day to day. How shall I convince you of my gratitude, and what return can I make for your even parental care?"

I spoke earnestly, for my heart was in my words. His unvarying gentleness and tenderness to me, (since that one fiery shower that converted for a time the Castalian fountain into a Dead Sea,) had won my sincere and deep regard. He had seemed lately rather more reserved than usual, and I valued still more his undisguised expressions of interest and affection.

"You owe me nothing," said he, and I could not help noticing an unwonted trepidation in his manner, and on one sallow cheek a deep flush was spreading. "Long years of kindness, tenfold to mine, could not atone for the harshness and injustice of which I was once guilty. You will go into the world and blush like Waller's rose, to be so admired. You will be surrounded by new friends, new lovers, and look back to these walls as to a prison-house, and to me, as the grim jailer of your youth."

"No indeed, Mr. Regulus; you wrong yourself and me. Memory will hang many a sweet garland on these classic walls, and will turn gratefully to you, as the benefactor of my childhood, the mentor of my growing years."

My voice choked. A strange dread took possession of me, he looked so agitated, so little like himself. His hand trembled so that it dropped the ruler, that powerful hand, in whose strong grasp I had seen the pale delinquent writhe in terror. I hardly know what I dreaded, but the air seemed thick and oppressive, and I longed to escape into the open sunshine.

"Gabriella, my child," said he, "wait one moment. I did not think it would require so much courage to confess so much weakness. I have been indulging in dreams so wild, yet so sweet, that I fear to breathe them, knowing that I must wake to the cold realities of life. I know not how it is, but you have twined yourself about my heart so gradually, so gently, but so strongly, that I cannot separate you from it. A young and fragrant vine, you have covered it with beauty and freshness. You have diffused within it an atmosphere of spring. You thought the cold mathematician, the stern philosopher could not feel, but I tell thee, child, we are the very ones that can and do feel. There is as much difference between our love and the boyish passion which passes for love, as there is between the flash of the glowworm and the welding heat that fuses bars of steel. Oh! Gabriella, do not laugh at this confession, or deem it lightly made. I hope nothing,—I ask nothing; and yet if you could,—if you would trust your orphan youth to my keeping, I would guard it as the most sacred trust God ever gave to man."

He paused from intense emotion, and wiped the drops of perspiration from his forehead, while I stood ready to sink with shame and sorrow. No glow of triumph, no elation of grateful vanity warmed my heart, or exalted my pride. I felt humbled, depressed. Where I had been accustomed to look up with respect, I could not bear to look down in pity, it was so strange, so unexpected. I was stunned, bewildered. The mountain had lost its crown,—it had fallen in an avalanche at my feet.

"Oh, Mr. Regulus!" said I, when I at last liberated my imprisoned voice, "you honor me too much. I never dreamed of such a,—such a distinction. I am not worthy of it,—indeed I am not. It makes me very unhappy to think of your cherishing such feelings for me, who have looked up to you so long with so much veneration and respect. I will always esteem and revere you, dear Mr. Regulus,—always think of you with gratitude and affection; but do not, I entreat you, ever allude again to any other sentiment. You do not know how very miserable it makes me."

I tried to express myself in the gentlest manner possible, but the poor man had lost all command of his feelings. He had confined them in his breast so long, that the moment he released them, they swelled and rose like the genius liberated from the chest of the fisherman, and refused to return to the prison-house they had quitted. His brows contracted, his lips quivered, and turning aside with a spasmodic gesture, he covered his face with his handkerchief.

I could not bear this,—it quite broke my heart. I felt as remorseful as if every tear he was hiding was a drop of blood. Walking hastily to him, and laying my hand on his arm, I exclaimed,—

"Don't, my dear master!" and burst into tears myself.

How foolish we must have appeared to a bystander, who knew the cause of our tears,—one weeping that he loved too well, the other that she could not love in return. How ridiculous to an uninterested person would that tall, awkward, grave man seem, in love with a young girl so much his junior, so childlike and so unconscious of the influence she had acquired.

"How foolish this is!" cried he, as if participating in these sentiments. Then removing the handkerchief from his face, he ran his fingers vigorously through his hair, till it stood up frantically round his brow, drew the sleeves of his coat strenuously over his wrists, and straightening himself to his tall height, seemed resolved to be a man once more. I smiled afterwards, when I recollected his figure; but I did not then,—thank heaven, I did not smile then,—I would not have done it for "the crown the Bourbons lost."

Anxious to close a scene so painful, I approached the door though with a lingering, hesitating step. I wanted to say something, but knew not what to utter.

"You will let me be your friend still," said he, taking my hand in both his. "You will not think worse of me, for a weakness which has so much to excuse it. And, Gabriella, my dear child, should the time ever come, when you need a friend and counsellor, should the sky so bright now be darkened with clouds, remember there is one who would willingly die to save you from sorrow or evil. Will you remember this?"

"Oh, Mr. Regulus, how could I forget it?"

"There are those younger and more attractive," he continued, "who may profess more, and yet feel less. I would not, however, be unjust. God save me from the meanness of envy, the baseness of jealousy. I fear I did not do justice to young Clyde, when I warned you of his attentions. I believe he is a highly honorable young man. Ernest Linwood,"—he paused, and his shaded eyes sought mine, with a glance of penetrating power,—"is, I am told, a man of rare and fascinating qualities. He is rich beyond his need, and will occupy a splendid position in the social world. His mother will probably have very exalted views with regard to the connections he may form. Forgive me if I am trespassing on forbidden ground. I did not mean,—I have no right,"—

He stopped, for my confusion was contagious. My face crimsoned, even my fingers were suffused with the rosy hue of shame. Nor was it shame alone. Indignation mingled with it its deeper dye.

"If you suppose, Mr. Regulus," said I, in a wounded and excited tone, "that I have any aspirations, that would conflict with Mrs. Linwood's ambitious views, you wrong me very much. Oh! if I thought that he, that she, that you, or anybody in the world could believe such a thing"—

I could not utter another word. I remembered Mrs. Linwood's countenance when she entered the library. I remembered many things, which might corroborate my fears.

"You are as guileless as the unweaned lamb, Gabriella, and long, long may you remain so," he answered, with a gentleness that disarmed my anger. "Mine was an unprompted suggestion, about as wise, I perceive, as my remarks usually are. I am a sad blunderer. May heaven pardon the pain I have caused, for the sake of my pure intentions. I do not believe it possible for a designing thought to enter your mind, or a feeling to find admittance into your heart, that angels might not cherish. But you are so young and inexperienced, so unsuspecting and confiding;—but no matter, God bless you, and keep you forever under his most holy guardianship!"

Wringing my hand so hard that it ached long afterwards, he turned away, and descended the steps more rapidly than he had ever done before. In his excitement he forgot his hat, and was pursuing his way bareheaded, through the sunny atmosphere.

"He must not go through town in that way, for the boys to laugh at him," thought I, catching up his hat and running to the door.

"Mr. Regulus!" I cried, waving it above my head, to attract his attention.

He started, turned, saw the hat, run his fingers through his long hair, smiled, and came back. I met him more than half way.

"I did not know that I had left my head, as well as my heart behind," said he, with a sickly effort to be facetious; "thank you, God bless you once again."

With another iron pressure of my aching hand, he dashed his hat on his lion-like head and left me.

I walked home as one in a dream, wondering if this interview were real or ideal; wondering if the juice of the milk-white flower, "made purple by love's wand," had been squeezed by fairy fingers into the eyes of my preceptor, in his slumbering hours, to cause this strange passion; wondering why the spirit of love, like the summer wind, stealing softly through the whispering boughs, breathes where it listeth, and we cannot tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth; and wondering most of all if—but I cannot describe the thoughts that drifted through my mind, vague and changing as the clouds that went hurrying after each other over the deep blue ether.



CHAPTER XX.

Commencement day!—a day of feverish anxiety and excitement to the young student, who is to step forth before the public eye, a candidate for the laurels of fame;—a day of weariness and stiffness to the dignified professors, obliged to sit hour after hour, listening to the florid eloquence whose luxuriance they have in vain attempted to prune, or trying to listen while the spirit yawns and stretches itself to its drowsy length;—a day of intense interest to the young maiden, who sees among the youthful band of aspirants one who is the "bright particular star" round which her pure and trembling hopes revolve.

It was a day of excitement to me, for every thing was novel, and therefore interesting. It was the first time I had ever been in a dense crowd, and I felt the electric fluid, always collected where the great heart of humanity is throbbing, thrilling in my veins, and ready to flash at the master-stroke of eloquence. I was dazzled by the brilliant display of beauty and fashion that lighted up the classic walls as with living sunbeams. Such clusters of mimic blossoms and flowing ringlets wreathed together round fair, blooming faces; such a cloud of soft, airy drapery floating over lithe figures, swaying forward like light boughs agitated by the wind; such a fluttering of snowy fans, making the cool, pleasant sound of rain drops pattering among April leaves; such bright eager eyes, turned at every sounding step towards the open door,—I had never looked upon the like before. I sat in a dream of delight, without thinking that it might be thought vulgar to appear delighted, and still more to express undisguised admiration.

I dared not look to the platform, where the faculty and students were arranged in imposing ranks, for there was one pair of familiar, sparkling eyes, that were sure to beat mine back with their steadfast gaze. I did not like this persevering scrutiny, for I was sure it would attract the attention of others, and then draw it on myself. He had grown taller, Richard Clyde had, since I had seen him, his countenance was more manly, his manner more polished. He had been with us the evening before, but the room was crowded with company, and I was careful not to give him a moment's opportunity of speaking to me alone. But I read too well in his sincere and earnest eyes, that time had wrought no change in the fervor of his feelings, or the constancy of his attachment.

Mrs. Linwood, though surrounded by friends of the most distinguished character, honored him by signal marks of attention. I was proud of him as a friend. Why did he wish to be more?

"What a fine young man Clyde is!" I heard some one remark who sat behind us. "It is said he is the most promising student in the university."

"Yes," was the reply. "I have heard that several wealthy gentlemen in Boston are going to send him to Europe to complete his education, as his own income will not allow him to incur the expense."

"That is a great compliment," observed the first voice, "and I have no doubt he deserves it. They say, too, that he is betrothed to a young girl in the country, very pretty, but in most indigent circumstances,—an early attachment,—children's romance."

Was it possible that village gossip had reached these venerable walls? But hark to the other voice.

"I have heard so, but they say she has been adopted by a rich lady, whose name I have forgotten. Her own mother was of very mysterious and disreputable character, I am told, whom no one visited or respected. Quite an outcast."

I started as if an arrow had passed through my ears, or rather entered them, for it seemed quivering there. Never before had I heard one sullying word breathed on the spotless snow of my mother's character. Is it strange that the cold, venomous tongue of slander, hissing at my very back, should make me shudder and recoil as if a serpent were there?

A hand touched my shoulder, lightly, gently, but I knew its touch, though never felt but once before. I looked up involuntarily, and met the eyes of Ernest Linwood, who was standing close to the seat I occupied. I did not know he was there. He had wedged the crowd silently, gradually, till he reached the spot he had quitted soon after our entrance, to greet his former class mates. I knew by his countenance that he had heard all, and a sick, deadly feeling came over me. He, to hear my mother's name made a byword and reproach, myself alluded to as the indigent daughter of an outcast,—he, who seemed already lifted as high above me on the eagle wings of fortune, as the eyry of the king-bird is above the nest of the swallow,—it was more than I could bear.

I said I knew by his countenance that he had heard all. I never saw such an expression as his face wore,—such burning indignation, such withering scorn. I trembled to think of the central fires from which such flames darted. As he caught my glance, an instantaneous change came over it. Compassion softened every lineament. Still his eye of power held me down. It said, "be quiet, be calm,—I am near, be not afraid."

"I wish I could get you a glass of water," said he, in a low voice, for I suppose I looked deadly pale; "but it would be impossible I fear in this crowd,—the aisles are impenetrable."

"Thank you," I answered, "there is no need,—but if I could only leave."

I looked despairingly at the masses of living beings on every side, crowding the pews, filling the aisles, standing on the window-sills, on the tops of the pews, leaning from the gallery,—and felt that I was a prisoner. The sultry air of August, confined in the chapel walls, and deprived of its vital principle by so many heaving lungs, weighed oppressively on mine. I could feel behind me the breathing of the lips of slander, and it literally seemed to scorch me. Ernest took my fan from my hand and fanned me without intermission, or I think I must have fainted.

As I sat with downcast eyes, whose drooping lashes were heavy with unshed tears, I saw a glass of water held before me by an unsteady hand. I looked up and saw Richard Clyde, his student's robe of flowing black silk gathered up by his left arm, who had literally forced his way through a triple row of men. We were very near the platform, there being but one row of pews between.

I drank the water eagerly, gratefully. Even before those blistering words were uttered, I had felt as if a glass of cold water would be worth all the gems of the East; now it was life itself.

"Are you ill, Gabriella?" whispered Mrs. Linwood, who with Edith sat directly in front, and whose eyes had watched anxiously the motions of Richard. "Ah! I see this heat is killing you."

"That is she, I do believe," hissed the serpent tongue behind me.

"Hush, she may hear you."

All was again still around me, the stillness of the multitudinous sea, for every wave of life heaved restlessly, producing a kind of murmur, like that of rustling leaves in an autumnal forest. Then a sound loud as the thunders of the roaring ocean came rushing on the air. It was the burst of acclamation which greeted Richard Clyde, first in honor though last in time. I bent my ear to listen, but the words blent confusedly together, forming one wave of utterance, that rolled on without leaving one idea behind. I knew he was eloquent, from the enthusiastic applause which occasionally interrupted him, but I had lost the power of perception; and had Demosthenes risen from his grave, it would scarcely have excited in me any emotion.

Was this my introduction to that world,—that great world, of which I had heard and thought and dreamed so much? How soon had my garlands faded,—my fine gold become dim! Could they not have spared me one day, me, who had never injured them? And yet they might aim their barbed darts at me. I would not care for that,—oh, no, it was not that. It was the blow that attacked an angel mother's fame. O my mother! could they not spare thee even in thy grave, where the wicked are said to cease from troubling and the weary are at rest? Could they not let thee sleep in peace, thou tempest-tost and weary hearted, even in the dark and narrow house, sacred from the footstep of the living?

Another thundering burst of applause called my spirit from the grass-grown sod, made damp and green by the willow's shade, to the crowded church and the bustle and confusion of life. Then followed the presentation of the parchment rolls and the ceremonies usual at the winding up of this time-honored day. It all seemed like unmeaning mummery to me. The majestic president, with his little flat black cap, set like a tile on the top of his head, was a man of pasteboard and springs, and even the beautiful figures that lighted up the walls had lost their coloring and life. There was, indeed, a wondrous change, independent of that within my own soul. The excessive heat had wilted these flowers of loveliness and faded their bright hues. Their uncurled ringlets hung dangling down their cheeks, whose roses were heightened to an unbecoming crimson, or withered to a sickly pallor; their gossamer drapery, deprived of its delicate stiffening, flapped like the loose sails of a vessel wet by the spray. Here and there was a blooming maiden, still as fair and cool as if sprinkled with dew, round whom the atmosphere seemed refreshed as by the sparkling of a jet d'eau. These, like myself, were novices, who had brought with them the dewy innocence of life's morning hours; but they had not, like me, heard the hissing of the adder among their roses.

"Be calm,—be courageous," said Ernest, in a scarcely audible tone, as bending down he gave the fan into my hand; "the arrow rebounds from an impenetrable surface."

As we turned to leave the church, I felt my hand drawn round the arm of Richard Clyde. How he had cleft the living mass so quickly I could not tell; but he had made his way where an arrow could hardly penetrate. I looked round for Edith,—but Ernest watched over her, like an earthly providence. My backward glance to her prevented my seeing the faces of those who were seated behind me. But what mattered it? They were strangers, and heaven grant that they would ever remain so.

"Are you entirely recovered?" asked Richard, in an anxious tone. "I never saw any one's countenance change so instantaneously as yours. You were as white as your cambric handkerchief. You are not accustomed to such stifling crowds, where we seem plunged in an exhausted receiver."

"I never wish to be in such another," I answered, with emphasis. "I never care to leave home again."

"I am sorry your first impressions should have been so disagreeable,—but I hope you have been interested in some small degree. You do not know what inspiration there was in your presence. At first, I thought I would rather be shot from the cannon's mouth than speak in your hearing; but after the first shock, you were like a fountain of living waters playing on my soul."

Poor Richard! how could I tell him that I had not heard understandingly one sentence that he uttered? or how could I explain the cause of my mental distraction? He had cast his pearls to the wind; his diamonds to the sand.

Mrs. Linwood was a guest of the president, who was an intimate and valued friend. I would have given worlds for a little solitary nook, where I could hide myself from every eye; for a seat beneath the wild oaks that girdled the cottage of my childhood; but the house was thronged with the literati of the State, and wherever I turned I met the gaze of strangers. If I could have seen Mrs. Linwood alone, or Edith alone, and told them how wantonly, how cruelly my feelings had been wounded, it would have relieved the fulness, the oppression of my heart. But that was impossible. Mrs. Linwood's commanding social position, her uncommon and varied powers of conversation, the excellence and dignity of her character, made her the cynosure of the literary circle. Edith, too, from her exquisite loveliness, the sweetness of her disposition, and her personal misfortune, which endeared her to her friends by the tenderness and sympathy it excited, was a universal favorite; and all these attractive qualities in both were gilded and enhanced by the wealth which enabled them to impart, even more than they received. They were at home here,—they were in the midst of friends, whose society was congenial to their tastes, and I resolved, whatever I might suffer, not to mar their enjoyment by my selfish griefs. Ernest had heard all,—perhaps he believed all. He did not know my mother. He had never seen that face of heavenly purity and holy sorrow. Why should he not believe?

One thing I could do. I could excuse myself from dinner and thus secure an hour's quietude. I gave no false plea, when I urged a violent headache as the reason for my seclusion. My temples ached and throbbed as if trying to burst from a metallic band, and the sun rays, though sifted through curtains of folding lace, fell like needle points on my shrinking eyes.

"Poor Gabriella!" said Edith, laying her cool soft hand on my hot brow, "I did not think you were such a tender, green-house plant. I cannot bear to leave you here, when you could enjoy such an intellectual banquet below. Let me stay with you. I fear you are really very ill. How unfortunate!"

"No, no, dear Edith; you must not think of such a thing. Just close those blinds, and give me that fan, and I shall be very comfortable here. If possible let no one come in. If I could sleep, this paroxysm will pass over."

"There, sleep if you can, dear Gabriella, and be bright for the evening party. You knew the dresses mamma gave us for the occasion, both alike. I could not think of wearing mine, unless you were with me,—and you look so charmingly in white!"

Edith had such a sweet, coaxing way with her, she magnetized pain and subdued self-distrust. The mere touch of her gentle hand had allayed the fever of my brain, and one glance of her loving blue eye tempered the anguish of my spirit. She lingered, unwilling to leave me,—drew the blinds together, making a soft twilight amid the glare of day, saturated my handkerchief with cologne and laid it on my temples, and placing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, an offering to herself, on my pillow, kissed me, and left me.

I watched the sound of her retreating footsteps, or rather of her crutches, till they were no longer heard; then burying my face in my pillow, the sultry anguish of my heart was drenched in tears. Oh! what a relieving shower! It was the thunder-shower of the tropics, not the slow, drizzling rain of colder climes. I wept till the pillow was as wet as the turf on which the heavens have been weeping. I clasped it to my bosom as a shield against invisible foes, but there was no sympathy in its downy softness. I sighed for a pillow beneath whose gentle heavings the heart of human kindness beats, I yearned to lay my head on a mother's breast. Yea, cold and breathless as it was now, beneath the clods of the valley, it would still be a sacred resting-place to me. The long pressure of the grave-sods could not crush out the impression of that love, stronger than death, deeper than the grave.

Had the time arrived when I might claim the manuscript, left as a hallowed legacy to the orphan, who had no other inheritance? Had I awakened to the knowledge of woman's destiny to love and suffer? Dare I ask myself this question? Through the morning twilight of my heart, was not a star trembling, whose silver rays would never be quenched, save in the nightshades of death? Was it not time to listen to the warning voice, whose accents, echoing from the tomb, must have the power and grandeur of prophecy? Yes! I would ask Mrs. Linwood for my mother's history, as soon as we returned to Grandison Place; and if I found the shadow of disgrace rested on the memory of her I so loved and worshipped, I would fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, to avoid that searching eye, which, next to the glance of Omnipotence, I would shun in guilt and shame.

"They say!" Who are they? who are the cowled monks, the hooded friars who glide with shrouded faces in the procession of life, muttering in an unknown tongue words of mysterious import? Who are they? the midnight assassins of reputation, who lurk in the by-lanes of society, with dagger tongues sharpened by invention and envenomed by malice, to draw the blood of innocence, and, hyena-like, banquet on the dead? Who are they? They are a multitude no man can number, black-stoled familiars of the inquisition of slander, searching for victims in every city, town, and village, wherever the heart of humanity throbs, or the ashes of mortality find rest.

Oh, coward, coward world—skulkers! Give me the bold brigand, who thunders along the highways with flashing weapon that cuts the sunbeams as well as the shades. Give me the pirate, who unfurls the black flag, emblem of his terrible trade, and shows the plank which your doomed feet must tread; but save me from the they-sayers of society, whose knives are hidden in a velvet sheath, whose bridge of death, is woven of flowers; and who spread, with invisible poison, even the spotless whiteness of the winding-sheet.



CHAPTER XXI.

"Gabriella, awake!"

"Mother, is the day dawning?"

"My child, the sun is near his setting; you have slumbered long."

I dreamed it was my mother's voice that awakened me,—then it seemed the voice of Richard Clyde, and I was lying under the great shadow of the oak, where he had found me years before half drowned in tears.

"Gabriella, my dear,—it is time to dress for the evening."

This time I recognized the accents of Mrs. Linwood, and I rose at once to a sitting position, wondering if it were the rising or the declining day that shone around me. Sleep had left its down on my harassed spirits, and its balm on my aching head. I felt languid, but tranquil; and when Mrs. Linwood affectionately but decidedly urged upon me the necessity of rising and preparing to descend to the drawing-room, I submissively obeyed. She must have seen that I had been in tears, but she made no allusion to them. Her manner was unusually kind and tender; but there was an expression in her serene but commanding eye, that bade me rise superior to the weakness that had subdued me. Had her son spoken of the cause of my emotion?

A few moments after, Edith entered, and her mother rejoined her friends below.

Edith held in her hand a fresh bouquet of the most exquisite green-house plants, among which the scarlet geranium exhibited its glowing blossoms. She held it towards me, turned it like a prism in various directions to catch the changing rays, while its odoriferous breath perfumed the whole apartment.

"I am glad you have another, Edith," I said, looking at the wilted flowers on my pillow. "These have fulfilled their mission most sweetly. I have no doubt they inspired soothing dreams, though I cannot remember them distinctly."

"Oh! these are yours," she answered, "sent by a friend who was quite distressed at your absence from the dinner-table. Cannot you guess the donor?"

"It will not require much acuteness," replied I, taking the flowers, and though I could not help admiring their beauty, and feeling grateful for the attention, a shade of regret clouded their welcome; "I have so few friends it is easy to conjecture who thus administers to my gratification."

"Well, who is it? You do not hazard the utterance of the name."

"No one but Richard Clyde would think of giving me a token like this. They are very, very sweet, and yet I wish he had not sent them."

"Ungrateful Gabriella! No one but Richard! A host of common beings melted into one, could not make the equal of the friend who made me the bearer of this charming offering. Is the gift of Ernest greeted with such indifference?"

"Ernest!" I repeated, and the blood bounded in my veins like a stream leaping over a mountain rock. "Is he indeed so kind?"

I bent my head over the beautiful messengers, to hide the joy too deep for words, the gratitude too intense for the gift. As I thus looked down into the heart of the flowers, I caught a glimpse of something white folded among the green leaves. Edith's back was turned as she smoothed the folds of an India muslin dress that lay upon the bed. I drew out the paper with a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words:—

"Sweet flower girl of the north! be not cast down. The most noxious wind changes not the purity of marble; neither can an idle breath shake the confidence born of unsullied innocence."

These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to me. They were embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in bloom, and henceforth they were engraven on tablets on which the hand of man had never before traced a character, which the whole world might not peruse.

Oh, what magic there was in those little words! Slander had lost its sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour. I put the talisman in my bosom and the flowers in water,—for they might fade.

There was no one in the room but Edith and myself. She sat on the side of the bed, a cloud of white fleecy drapery floating over her lap; a golden arrow, the very last in the day, God's quiver darted through the half-open blinds into the clusters of her fair ringlets. She was the most unaffected of human beings, and yet her every attitude was the perfection of grace, as if she sat as a model to the sculptor. I thought there was a shade of sadness on her brow. Perhaps she had seen me conceal the note, and imagined something clandestine and mysterious between me and her brother, that brother whose exclusive devotion had constituted the chief happiness of her life. Though it was a simple note, and the words were few, intended only to comfort and sustain, they were of such priceless value to me, I could not bear that even Edith's eye should become familiar with its contents. But her love and confidence were too dear to be sacrificed to a refinement of romance.

"Dear Edith," said I, putting the note in her hand, and an arm round her neck, "it was a gift of consolation you brought me;" and then I told her all that I had over-heard, and of the exceeding bitterness of my anguish.

"I know it,—mamma and I both know it,—brother told us. I did not speak of it, for you looked as if you had forgotten it after I came in, and I did not wish you to recall it. You must forget it, indeed you must. Such cruel insinuations can never alienate from you the friends who love you. They rather bind you closer to our hearts. Come, we have no time to lose. You know we must assist each other."

I insisted on being her handmaid first, and lingered over her toilet till she literally escaped from my hands and drew behind the lace curtains like a star behind a cloud. Our dresses were alike, as the generous Edith had willed. They were of the most exquisite India muslin, simply but elegantly decorated with the finest of lace. I had never before been arrayed for an evening party, and as the gauzy fulness of drapery fell so softly and redundantly over the form I had been accustomed to see in the sad-colored robes of mourning, I hardly recognized my own lineaments. There was something so light, so ethereal and graceful in the dress, my spirit caught its airiness and seemed borne upwards as on wings of down. I was about to clasp on my precious necklace and bracelets of hair, when observing Edith's beautiful pearl ornaments, corresponding so well with the delicacy and whiteness of her apparel, I laid them aside, resolving to wear no added decoration but the flowers, consecrated as the gift of Ernest.

"Come here, Gabriella, let me arrange that fall of lace behind," said Edith, extending a beautiful arm, on which the pearl-drops lay like dew on a lily. Both arms passed round my neck, and I found it encircled like her own with pearls. Then turning me round, she clasped first one arm, and then the other with fairy links of pearl, and then she flung a roseate of these ocean flowers round my head, smiling all the time and uttering exclamations of delighted admiration.

"Now don't cry, Gabriella dear. You look so cool—so fair—so like a snowdrop glittering with dew. And don't put your arms round my neck, beautiful as they are, quite so close. You will spoil my lace, darling. You must just wear and keep the pearls for the love of me. Mamma sanctions the gift, so you need have no scruples about accepting them. Remember, now, we must have no more diamonds, not one, though of the purest water and sparkling in heaven's own setting."

What could I say, in answer to such abounding kindness? In spite of her prohibition the diamonds would mingle with the pearls; but the sunbeams shone on them both.

What a day had this been to me! It seemed as if I had lived years in the short space of a few hours. I had never felt so utterly miserable, not even over my mother's new made grave. I had never felt so supremely happy,—so buoyant with hope and joy. The flowers of Ernest, the pearls of Edith, came to me with a message as gladdening as that which waked the silver harp-strings of the morning stars. I did not, I dared not misunderstand the meaning of the first. They were sent as balm to a wounded spirit; as breathers of hope to the ear of despair; but it was his hand that administered the balm; his spirit that inspired the strain.

"How radiant you look, Gabriella!" exclaimed Edith, her sweet blue eyes resting on me with affectionate delight. "I am so glad to see you come out of the cloud. Now you justify our pride as well as our affection."

"But I—but all of us look so earthly at your side, Edith"—

"Hush! flatterer—and yet, who would not prefer the beauty of earth, to the cold idealism of spirit loveliness? I have never sought the admiration of men. If I look lovely in the eyes of Ernest, it is all I desire. Perhaps all would not believe me; but you will. I yield you the empire of every heart but his. There, I would not willingly occupy the second place. A strange kind of jealousy, Gabriella; but I am just so weak."

She smiled, nay even laughed,—called herself very weak, very foolish, but said she could not help it. She believed she was the most selfish of human beings, and feared that this was the right hand to be cut off, the right eye to be plucked out. I was pained to hear her talk in this way; for I thought if any one ever gained the heart of Ernest, it would be dearly purchased by the sacrifice of Edith's friendship. But it was only a jesting way of expressing her exceeding love, after all. She was not selfish; she was all that was disinterested and kind.

I followed her down stairs into a blaze of light, that at first dazzled and bewildered me. The chandeliers with their myriad pendants of glittering crystal emitted thousands of brilliant coruscations, like wintry boughs loaded with icicles and sparkling in a noonday sun. While through the open windows, the departing twilight mingled its soft duskiness with the splendors of the mimic day.

Ernest Linwood and Richard Clyde were standing near the entrance of the door to greet us. The former immediately advanced and gave me his arm, and Richard walked by the side of Edith. I heard him sigh as they fell behind us, and my heart echoed the sound. Yet how could he sigh with Edith at his side? As I walked through the illuminated drawing-room, escorted by one on whom the eyes of the fashionable world were eagerly bent, I could not help being conscious of the glances that darted on me from every direction. Ernest Linwood was the loadstar of the scene, and whoever he distinguished by his attention must be conspicuous by association. I felt this, but no embarrassment agitated my step or dyed my cheek with blushes. The deep waters were stirred, stirred to their inmost depths, but the surface was calm and unruffled. Mrs. Linwood was at the head of the room, the centre of an intellectual circle. She was dressed, as usual, in silver gray; but the texture of her dress was the richest satin, shaded by blonde. The effect was that of a cloud with a silver lining, and surely it was a fitting attire for one who knew how to give brightness to the darkest shadows of life.