As we approached her, her countenance lighted up with pride and pleasure. I saw she was gratified by my appearance; that she was not ashamed of her protegee. Yet as we came nearer, I observed an expression of the most tender anxiety, approaching to sadness, come over her brow. How proud she was of her son! She looked upon him with a glance that would have been idolatry, had not God said, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself idols, for I am a jealous God."

She took my hand, and I saw her eye follow the soft tracery of pearl-flowers that enwreathed neck, arms, and brow. She knew who had thus adorned me, and her approving smile sanctioned the gifts.

"I rejoice to see you look so well, my dear child," she said, "I feared you might lose the enjoyment of the evening; but I see no one who has a brighter prospect before them now."

She introduced me to the friends who surrounded her, and wished to give me a seat near her; but Ernest resisted the movement, and with a smiling bow passed on.

"I am not disposed to release you quite so soon," said he, passing out into the piazza. "I see very plainly that if I relinquish my position it will not be easy to secure it again. I am delighted. I am charmed, Gabriella, to see that you have the firmness to resist, as well as the sensibility to feel. I am delighted, too, to see you in the only livery youth and innocence should wear in a festal scene like this. I abhor the gaudy tinselry which loads the devotees of fashion, indicative of false tastes and false principles; but white and pearls remind me of every thing pure and holy in nature. In the Bible we read of the white robes of angels and saints. Who ever dreamed of clothing them, in imagination, in dark or party-colored garments? In mythology, the graces, the nymphs, and the muses are represented in snowy garments. In spotless white the bride is led to the marriage shrine, and in white she is prepared for the last sublime espousals. Do you know," added he, suddenly changing the theme, as if conscious he was touching upon something too solemn, "why I selected the scarlet geranium for one of the blossoms of your bouquet? The first time I saw you, it glowed in the darkness of your hair like coral in the ocean's heart."

While he was speaking he broke a sprig from the bouquet and placed it in a wave of my hair, behind the band of pearls.

"Earth and ocean bring you their tribute," said he, and "heaven too," he added; for as we passed by the pillars, a moon-beam glided in and laid its silver touch on my brow.

"It is Edith's hand that thus adorned me," I answered, unwilling he should believe I had been consulting my own ambitious taste. "Had I been left to myself, I should have sought no ornament but these beautiful flowers, doubly precious for the feelings of kindness and compassion that consecrated their mission."

"Compassion, Gabriella! I should as soon think of compassionating the star that shines brightest in the van of night. Compassion looks down; kindness implies an equal ground; admiration looks up with the gaze of the astronomer and the worship of the devotee."

"You forget I am but a simple, village rustic. Such exaggerated compliments would suit better the brilliant dames of the city. I would rather a thousand times you would say, 'Gabriella, I do feel kindly towards you,' than utter any thing so formal, and apparently so insincere."

I was really hurt. I thought he was mocking my credulity, or measuring the height and depth of my girlish vanity. I did not want to be compared to a star, a lone and distant star, nor to think of him as an astronomer gazing up at me with telescopic eye. My heart was overflowing with gentle, natural thoughts. I wanted human sympathy, not cold and glittering compliments.

"And do you expect to hear the language of nature here, with the buzz of empty tongues and the echo of unmeaning laughs in the ear; where, if a word of sentiment were over-heard, it would be bandied from lip to lip with hollow mockery? Come with me into the garden, where the flowers blush in their folded leaves, beneath the love-light of yon gentle moon, where the stilly dews whisper sweet thoughts to the listening heart, and I will tell you what I have learned in Grandison Place, under the elm tree's shade, by the flower girl in the library, and from a thousand sources of which you have never dreamed."

He took the hand which rested lightly on his arm, and drawing it closer to his side led the way to the steps of the piazza. I had dreamed of a moment like this in the golden reveries of romance, and imagined it a foretaste of heaven, but now I trembled and hesitated like the fearful fluttering spirit before the opening gates of paradise. I dared not yield to the almost irresistible temptation. No figures were gliding along the solitary paths, no steps were brushing away the dew-stars that had fallen from the sky. We should be alone in the moonlight solitude; but the thoughts of Mrs. Linwood and of Edith would find us out.

"No, no!" I cried, shrinking from the gentle force that urged me forward; "do not ask me now. It would be better to remain where we are. Do you not think so?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," he said, and his voice had an altered tone, like that of a sweet instrument suddenly untuned; "but there is only one now, for those who fear to trust me, Gabriella."

"To trust you,—oh you cannot, do not misunderstand me thus!"

"Why else do you shrink, as if I were leading you to a path of thorns instead of one margined with flowers?"

"I fear the observations of the world, since the bitter lesson of the morning."

"Your fear! You attach more value to the passing remarks of strangers, than the feelings of one who was beginning to believe he had found one pure votary of nature and of truth. It is well. I have monopolized your attention too long."

Calmly and coldly he spoke, and the warm light of his eye went out like lightning, leaving the cloud gloom behind it. I was about to ask him to lead me back to his mother, in a tone as cold and altered as his own, when I saw her approaching us with a lady whom I had observed at the chapel; for her large, black eyes seemed magnetizing me, whenever I met their gaze. She was tall, beyond the usual height of her sex, finely formed, firm and compact as a marble pillar. A brow of bold expansion, features of the Roman contour, clearly cut and delicately marked; an expression of recklessness, independence, and self-reliance were the most striking characteristics of the young lady, whom Mrs. Linwood introduced as Miss Melville, the daughter of an early friend of hers.

"Miss Margaret Melville," she repeated, looking at her son, who stood, leaning with an air of stately indifference against a pillar of the piazza. I had withdrawn my hand from his arm, and felt as if the breadth of the frozen ocean was between us.

"Does Mr. Ernest Linwood forget his old friend so easily?" she asked, in a clear, ringing voice, extending a fair ungloved hand. "Do you not remember Madge Wildfire, or Meg the Dauntless, as the students used to call me? Or have I become so civilized and polished that you do not recognize me?"

"I did not indeed," said he, receiving the offered hand with more grace than eagerness, "but it is not so much the fault of my memory, as the marvellous change in yourself. I must not say improvement, as that would imply that there was a time when you were susceptible of it."

"You may say just what you please, for I like frankness and straightforwardness as well as I ever did; better,—a great deal better, for I know its value more. And you, Ernest, I cannot call you any thing else, you are another and yet the same. The same stately, statue-like being I used to try in vain to teaze and torment. It seems so long since we have met, I expected to have seen you quite bent and hoary with age. Do tell me something of your transatlantic experience."

While she was speaking in that peculiar tone of voice which reminded one of a distant clarion, Richard Clyde came to me on the other side, and seeing that she wished to engage the conversation of Ernest, which she probably thought I had engrossed too long, I took the offered arm of Richard and returned to the drawing-room. Seeing a table covered with engravings, I directed our steps there, that subjects of conversation might be suggested independent of ourselves.

"How exquisite these are!" I exclaimed, taking up the first within my reach and expatiating on its beauties, without really comprehending one with my preoccupied and distant thoughts. "These Italian landscapes are always charming."

"I believe that is a picture of the Boston Common," said he, smiling at my mistake; "but surely no Italian landscape can boast of such magnificent trees and such breadth of verdure. It is a whole casket of emeralds set in the granite heart of a great city. And see in the centre that pure, sparkling diamond, sending out such rays of coolness and delight,—I wonder you did not recognize it."

"I have seen it only in winter, when the trees exhibited their wintry dreariness, and little boys were skating on the diamond surface of that frozen water. It looked very different then."

"Mr. Linwood could explain these engravings," said he, drawing forward some which indeed represented Italian ruins, grand and ivy mantled, where the owl might well assert her solitary domain. "He has two great advantages, an eye enlightened by travel, and a taste fastidious by nature."

"I do not admire fastidiousness," I answered; "I do not like to have defects pointed out to me, which my own ignorance does not discover. There is more pleasure in imagining beauties than in finding out faults."

"Will you think it a presuming question, a too inquisitive one," he said, holding up an engraving between himself and the light, "if I ask your candid opinion of Mr. Linwood? Is the world right in the character it has given? Has he all the peculiarities and fascinations it ascribes to him?"

He spoke in a careless manner, or rather tried to do so, but his eye burned with intense emotion. Had he asked me this question a short time previous, conscious blushes would have dyed my cheeks, for a "murderous guilt shows not itself more soon," than the feelings I attempt to conceal; but my sensibility had been wounded, my pride roused, and my heart chilled. I had discovered within myself a spirit which, like the ocean bark, rises with the rising wave.

"If Mr. Linwood had faults," I answered, and I could not help smiling at the attempted composure and real perturbation of his manner, "I would not speak of them. Peculiarities he may have, for they are inseparable from genius,—fascinations"—here their remembrance was too strong for my assumed indifference, and my sacred love of truth compelled me to utter,—"fascinations he certainly possesses."

"In what do they consist?" he asked. "Beyond an extremely gentlemanly exterior, I do not perceive any peculiar claims to admiration."

Hurt as I had been by Ernest's altered manner, I was disposed to do justice to his merits, and the more Richard seemed desirous to depreciate him, the more I was willing to exalt him. If he was capable of the meanness of envy, I was resolved to punish him. I did him injustice. He was not envious, but jealous; and it is impossible for jealousy and justice ever to go hand in hand.

"In what do they consist?" I repeated. At that moment I saw him through the window, standing just where I had left him, leaning with folded arms against the pillar, with the moonlight shining gloriously on his brow. Miss Melville stood near him, talking with great animation, emphasizing her words with quick, decided gesticulation, while he seemed a passive listener. I had seen handsomer gentlemen, perhaps,—but never one so perfectly elegant and refined in appearance. The pale transparency of his complexion had the purity and delicacy of alabaster without its whiteness, seen by that clear, silvery light.

"In what do they consist? In powers of conversation as rich as they are varied, in versatility of talents, in rare cultivation of mind and polish of manner. Let me see. I must give you a complete inventory of his accomplishments. He reads most charmingly, plays superbly, and sings divinely. Would you know his virtues? He is a most devoted son, a paragon of brothers, and a miracle of a host."

I believe there is a dash of coquetry in every woman's nature. There must have been in mine, or I could not have gone on, watching the red thermometer in Richard's cheek, rising higher and higher, though what I said was truth, unembellished by imagination. It was what they who run might read. I did not speak of those more subtle traits which, were invisible to the common eye, those characters which, like invisible writing, are brought out by a warm and glowing element.

"I am glad to hear you speak so openly in his praise," said Richard, with a brightening countenance; "even if I deserved such a tribute, I should not wish to know that you had paid it to me. I would prize more one silent glance, one conscious blush, than the most labored eulogium the most eloquent lips could utter."

"But I do praise you very much," I answered; "ask Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and Mr. Regulus. Ask Mr. Linwood himself."

"Never speak of me to him, Gabriella. Let my feelings be sacred, if they are lonely. You know your power; use it gently, exert it kindly."

The smile of assumed gaiety faded from my lips, as his grave, earnest, sincere accents went down into my soul. Could I trifle even for a moment with an affection so true and constant?

Oh, wayward and unappreciating heart! Why could I not return this love, which might have made me so happy? Why was there no spirit-echo to his voice; no quickened pulsations at the sound of his coming footsteps?

"This is no place, Richard, to talk of ourselves, or I would try to convince you that I am incapable of speaking lightly of your feelings, or betraying them to a human being, even to Mrs. Linwood; but let us speak of something else now. Do you not feel very happy that you are free,—no more a slave to hours or rules; free to come and go, when and where you please, with the whole earth to roam in,

"Heart within and God o'erhead?"

"No! I am sad. After being at anchor so long, to be suddenly set drifting, to be the sport of the winds of destiny, the cable chain of habit and association broken, one feels dizzy and bewildered. I never knew till now how strong the classmate bond of union is, how sacred the brotherhood, how binding the tie. We, who have been treading the same path for four long years, must now diverge, east, west, north, and south, the great cardinal points of life. In all human probability we shall never all meet again, till the mysterious problem of our destiny is solved."

He paused, impressed by the solemnity of this idea, then added, in his natural, animated manner.

"There is one hope, Gabriella, to which I have looked forward as the sheet-anchor of my soul; if that fails me, I do not care what becomes of me. Sometimes it has burned so brightly, it has been my morning and evening star, my rising, but unsetting sun. To-night the star is dim. Clouds of doubt and apprehension gather over it. Gabriella,—I cannot live in this suspense, and yet I could not bear the confirmation of my fears. Better to doubt than to despair."

"Richard, why will you persist in talking of what cannot be explained here? Shall we not meet hereafter, and have abundant opportunities for conversation, free and uninterrupted? Look around, and see how differently other people are conversing. How lightly and carelessly their words come and go, mingled with merry laughter! Edith is at the piano. Let us go where we can listen, we cannot do it here."

"I am very selfish!" said he, yielding to my suggestion. "I have promised my classmates to introduce them to you. I see some of them, bending reproachful glances this way. I must redeem my character, so as not to incur disgrace in the parting hour."

Then followed introductions pressing on each other, till I was weary of hearing my own name, Miss Lynn. I never did like to be called Miss. Still it was an unspeakable relief to me, to be released from the necessity of repressing the feelings of others, and guarding my own. It was a relief to hear those unmeaning sayings which are the current coin of society, and to utter without effort the first light thought that came floating on the surface. The rest of the evening I was surrounded by strangers, and the most exacting vanity might have been satisfied with the incense I received. I knew that the protection of Mrs. Linwood gave a prestige to me that would not otherwise have been mine, but I could not help perceiving that Edith, the heiress, all lovely as she was, was not half as much courted and admired as the daughter of the outcast. I was too young, too much of a novice, not to be pleased with the attention I attracted; but when the heart is awakened, vanity has but little power. It is a cold, vapory conceit, that vanishes before the inner warmth and light, which, like the sun in the firmament, "shineth brighter and brighter to the perfect day."

After Edith retired from the instrument there was a buzz, and a sensation, and Miss Melville, or Meg the Dauntless, as I could not help mentally calling her, was escorted to the piano by Ernest. What a contrast she presented to the soft, retiring, ethereal Edith, whose every motion suggested the idea of music! Though her arm was linked in that of Ernest, she walked independently of him, dashing through the company with a brave, military air, and taking a seat as if a flourish of trumpets had heralded her approach. At first I was startled by the loud crash of the keys, as she threw her hands upon them with all her force, laughing at the wild dissonance of the sound; but as she continued, harmony, if not sweetness, rose out of the chaos. She evidently understood the science of music, and enjoyed it too. She did not sing, and while she was playing the most brilliant polkas, waltzes, and variations with the most wonderful execution, she talked and laughed with those around the instrument, or looked round the apartment, and nodded to this one and that, her great black eyes flashing like chain lightning. Her playing seemed to have a magical effect. No one could keep their feet still. Even the dignified president patted his, marking the measure of her prancing fingers. I could have danced wildly myself, for I never heard any thing so inspiring to the animal spirits as those wizard strains. Every countenance was lighted with animation, save one, and that was Ernest's. He stood immovable, pale, cold, and self-involved, like a being from another sphere. I remembered how differently he looked when he wooed me to the garden's moonlight walks, and how the warm and gentle thoughts that then beamed in his eyes seemed frozen and dead, and I wondered if they were extinguished forever.

"How stupid!" exclaimed Miss Melville, suddenly stopping, and turning round on the pivot of the music stool till she commanded a full view of the drawing-room. "I thought you would all be dancing by this time. There is no use in playing to such inanimate mortals. And you," said she, suddenly turning to Ernest, "you remind me of the prince, the enchanted prince in the Arabian Nights, only he was half marble, you are a whole statue. You do not like music. I pity you."

"I have my own peculiar tastes," he answered quietly; "some nerves are more delicately strung than others."

"Do you imply that my playing is too loud for delicate nerves? Why, that is nothing to what I can do. That is my company music. When I am at home I give full scope to my powers."

"We are perfectly satisfied with the specimen we have heard," said he, smiling; how could he help it? and every one laughed, none more heartily than the gay musician herself. I never heard such a laugh before, so merry, so contagious; such a rich, round, ringing laugh; dying away one moment, then bursting out again in such a chorus!

All at once she fixed her eyes on me, and starting up, came directly to me, planting her tall, finely formed, firm-set figure in the midst of the group around me.

"Come, you must play and sing too. I have no doubt your style will suit Mr. Linwood's delicate nerves."

"I never play," I answered.

"Nor sing?"

"Only at home."

"You have a face of music, I am sure."

"Thank you. I have a heart to appreciate it; that is a great gift."

"But why don't you sing and play? How do you expect to pass current in society, without being able to hang on the instrument as I do, or creep over it with mouselike fingers as most young ladies do? I suppose you are very learned—very accomplished? How many languages do you speak?"

"Only two at present," I answered, excessively amused by her eccentricity, and falling into her vein with a facility that quite surprised myself. "I generally find the English tongue sufficient to express my ideas."

"I suppose one of the two is German. You will be considered a mere nobody here, if you do not understand German. It is the fashion; the paroxysm; German literature, German taste, and German transcendentalism; I have tried them all, but they will not do for me. I must have sunshine and open air. I must see where I am going, and understand what I am doing. I abhor mysticism, as I do deceit. Are you frank, Miss Gabriella? You have such a pretty name, I shall take the liberty of using it. Lynn is too short; it sounds like an abbreviation of Linwood."

"If you mean by frankness, a disposition to tell all I think and feel, I am not frank," I answered, without noticing her last remark, which created a smile in others.

"You do not like to hear people express all their thoughts, good, bad, or indifferent?"

"Indeed I do not. I like to have them winnowed before they are uttered."

"Then you will not like me, and I am sorry for it. I have taken an amazing fancy to you. Never mind; I shall take you by storm when we get to Grandison Place. Do you know I am going home with you? Are you not delighted?"

She burst into one of her great, rich laughs, at the sight of my dismayed countenance. I really felt annihilated at the thought. There was something so overpowering, so redundant about her, I expected to be weighed down,—overshadowed. She going to Grandison Place! Alas, what a transformation there would be! Adieu to the quiet walks, the evening readings, the morning flower gatherings; adieu to sentiment and tranquillity, to poetry and romance. Why had Mrs. Linwood invited so strange a guest? Perhaps she was self-invited.

"I tell you what I am going for," she said, bending her face to mine and speaking in a whisper that sounded like a whistle in my ear; "I am going to animate that man of stone. Why have not you done it, juxtaposited as you are? You do not make use of the fire-arms with which nature has supplied you. If I had such a pair of eyes, I would slay like David my tens of thousands every day."

"The difficulty would be in finding victims," I answered. "The inhabitants of the town where I reside do not number more than two or three thousand."

"Oh! I would make it populous. I would draw worshippers from the four points of the earth,—and yet it would be a greater triumph to subdue one proud, hitherto impregnable heart."

Her eyes flashed like gunpowder as she uttered this, sotto voce it is true, but still loud enough to be heard half across the room.

"Goodby," she suddenly exclaimed, "they are beckoning me; I must go; try to like me, precious creature; I shall be quite miserable if you do not."

Then passing her arm round me, an arm firm, polished, and white as ivory, she gave me a loud, emphatic kiss, laughed, and left me almost as much confused as if one of the other sex had taken the same liberty.

"Is she," thought I, "a young man in disguise?"



CHAPTER XXII.

What am I writing?

Sometimes I throw down the pen, saying to myself, "it is all folly, all verbiage. There is a history within worth perusing, but I cannot bring it forth to light. I turn over page after page with the fingers of thought. I see characters glowing or darkened with passion,—lines alternately bright and shadowy, distinct and obscure, and it seems an easy thing to make a transcript of these for the outward world."

Easy! it requires the recording angel's pen to register the history of the human heart. "The thoughts that breathe, the thoughts that burn," how can they be expressed? The mere act of clothing them in words makes them grow cold and dull. The molten gold, the fused iron hardens and chills in the forming mould.

Easy! "Oh yes," the critic says, "it is an easy thing to write; only follow nature, and you cannot err." But nature is as broad as the universe, as high as the heavens, and as deep as the seas. It is but a small portion we can condense even on hundreds of pages of foolscap paper. If that portion be of love, the cold philosopher turns away in disdain and talks of romantic maids and moonstruck boys, as if the subject were fit alone for them. And yet love is the great motive principle of nature, the burning sun of the social system. Blot it out, and every other feeling and passion would sink in the darkness of eternal night. Byron's awful dream would be realized,—darkness would indeed be the universe. They who praise a writer for omitting love from the page which purports to be a record of life, would praise God for creating a world, over whose sunless realms no warmth or light was diffused, (if such a creation were possible,)—a world without flowers or music, without hope or joy.

But as the sun is only an emanation from the first great fountain of light and glory, so love is but an effluence from the eternal source of love divine.

"Bright effluence of bright essence increate." And woe to her, who, forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in the earthly stream, without seeking the living spring whence it flows; who worships the fire-ray that falls upon the altar, without giving glory to him from whom it descended. The stream will become a stagnant pool, exhaling pestilence and death; the fire-ray will kindle a devouring flame, destroying the altar, with the gift and the heart a burning bush, that will blaze forever without consuming.

Whither am I wandering?

Imagine me now, in a very different scene to the president's illuminated drawing-room. Instead of the wild buzzing of mingling voices, I hear the mournful sighing of the breeze through the weeping grave trees; and ever and anon there comes a soft, stealing sound through the long, swaying grass, like the tread of invisible feet. I am alone with my mother's spirit. The manuscript, that is to reveal the mystery of my parentage, is in my hand. The hour is come, when without violating the commands of the dead, I may claim it as my own, and remove the hermetic seal which death has stamped. Where else could I read it? My own room, once so serenely quiet, was no longer a sanctuary,—for Margaret Melville dashed through the house, swinging open the doors as abruptly as a March wind, and her laugh filled every nook and corner of the capacious mansion. How could I unseal the sacred history of my mother's sorrows within the sound of that loud, echoing ha, ha?

I could not; so I stole away to a spot, where sacred silence has set up its everlasting throne. The sun had not yet gone down, but the shadows of the willows lengthened on the grass. I sat at the foot of the grave leaning against a marble slab, and unsealed, with cold and trembling hands, my mother's heart, for so that manuscript seemed to me.

At first I could not see the lines, for my tears rained down so fast they threatened to obliterate the delicate characters; but after repeated efforts I acquired composure enough to read the following brief and thrilling history. It was the opening of the sixth seal of my life. The stars of hope fell, as a fig-tree casteth her untimely figs when she is shaken by a mighty wind, and the heaven of my happiness departed as a scroll when it is rolled together, and the mountains and islands of human trust were moved out of their places.

MY MOTHER'S HISTORY.

"Gabriella, before your eyes shall rest on these pages, mine will be closed in the slumbers of death. Let not your heart be troubled, my only beloved, at the record of wrongs which no longer corrode; of sorrows which are all past away. 'In my Father's house are many mansions,' and one of them is prepared for me. It is my Saviour's promise, and I believe it as firmly as if I saw the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, where that heavenly mansion is built.

"Weep not, then, my child, my orphan darling, over a past which cannot be recalled; let not its shadow rest too darkly upon you,—if there is joy in the present, be grateful; if there is hope in the future, rejoice.

"You have often asked me to tell you where I lived when I was a little child; whether my home was a gray cottage like ours, in the woods; and whether I had a mother whom I loved as dearly as you loved me. I have told you that my first feeble life-wail mingled with her dying groan, and you wondered how one could live without a mother's love.

"I was born in that rugged fortress, whose embattled walls are washed by the majestic Bay of Chesapeake. My father held a captain's commission in the army, and was stationed for many years at this magnificent, insulated bulwark. My father, at the time of my mother's death, was a young and gallant officer, and I was his only child. It is not strange that he should marry again; for the grief of man seldom survives the allotted period of mourning, and it was natural that he should select a gay and brilliant woman, for the second choice is generally a striking contrast to the first. My mother, I am told, was one of those gentle, dove-like, pensive beings, who nestled in her husband's heart, and knew no world beyond. My step-mother loved the world and its pleasures better than husband, children, and home. She had children of her own, who were more the objects of her pride than her love. Every day, they were dressed for exhibition, petted and caressed, and then sent back to the nursery, where they could not interfere with the pleasures of their fashionable mamma. Could I expect those tender cares which the yearning heart of childhood craves, as its daily sustenance? She was not harsh or despotic, but careless and indifferent. She did not care for me; and provided I kept out of her way, she was willing I should amuse myself in the best manner I pleased. My father was kind and caressing, when he had leisure to indulge his parental sensibilities; but he could not sympathize in my childish joys and sorrows, for I dared not confide them to him. He was a man, and, moreover, there was something in the gilded pomp of his martial dress, that inspired too much awe for childish familiarity. I used to gaze at him, when he appeared on military parade, as if he were one of the demi-gods of the ancient world. He had an erect and warlike bearing, a proud, firm step, and his gold epaulette with its glittering tassels flashing in the sunbeams, his crimson sash contrasting so splendidly with the military blue, his shining sword and waving plume,—all impressed me with a grandeur that was overpowering. It dazzled my eye, but did not warm my young heart.

"As I grew older, I exhibited a remarkable love of reading, and as no one took the trouble to direct my tastes, I seized every book which came within my reach and devoured it, with the avidity of a hungry and unoccupied mind. My father was a gentleman of pure and elegant taste, and had he dreamed that I was exposed, without guardianship, to dangerous influences, he would have shielded and warned me. But he believed the care of children under twelve years of age devolved on their mother, and he was always engrossed with the duties of a profession which he passionately loved, or the society of his brother officers, usually so fascinating and convivial.

"I used to take my book, which was generally some wild, impassioned romance, and wandering to the ramparts, seat myself by the shining pyramids of cannon-balls; and while the blue waves of the Chesapeake rolled in murmuring music by, or, lashed by the ocean wind, heaved in foaming billows, roaring against the walls, I yielded myself to the wizard spell of genius and passion. The officers as they passed would try to break the enchantment by gay and sportive words, but all in vain. I have sat there, drenched by the salt sea-spray, and knew it not. I was called the little bookworm, the prodigy, the dream-girl, a name you have inherited, my darling Gabriella; and my father seemed proud of the reputation I had established. But while my imagination was preternaturally developed, my heart was slumbering, and my soul unconscious of life's great aim.

"Thus unguarded by precept, unguided by example, I was sent from home to a boarding-school, where I acquired the usual education and accomplishments obtained at fashionable female seminaries. During my absence from home, my two step-sisters, who were thought too young to accompany me, and my infant step-brother, died in the space of one week, smitten by that destroying angel of childhood, the scarlet fever.

"I had been at school two years when I made my first visit home. My step-mother was then in the weeds of mourning, and of course excluded herself in a measure from gay society; but I marvelled that sorrow had not impaired the bloom of her cheek, or quenched the sparkle of her cold, bright eye. Her heart was not buried in the grave of her children,—it belonged to the world, to which she panted to return.

"But my father mourned. There was a shadow on his manly brow, which I had never seen before. I was, now, his only child, the representative of his once beloved Rosalie, and the pure, fond love of his early years revived again in me. I look back upon those two months, when I basked in the sunshine of parental tenderness for the first, the only time, as a portion of my life most dear and holy. I sighed when I thought of the years when we had been comparatively so far apart, and my heart grew to his with tender adhesiveness and growing love. The affections, which my worldly step-mother had chilled and repressed, and which the death of his other children had blighted, were now all mine, renovated and warmed.

"Oh, Gabriella! very precious is a father's love. It is an emblem of the love of God for the dependent beings he has created; so kind, so protecting, so strong, and yet so tender! Would to God, my poor, defrauded child, you could have known what this God-resembling love is,—but your orphanage has been the most sad, the most dreary,—the most unhallowed. Almighty Father of the universe, have mercy on my child! Protect and bless her when this wasting, broken heart no longer beats; when the frail shield of a mother's love is taken from her, and she is left alone—alone—alone. Oh! my God, have pity—have pity! Forsake her not!"

The paper was blistered with the tears of the writer. I dropped it on the grave, unable to go on. I cast myself on the grass-covered mould, and pressed it to my bosom, as if there was vitality in the cold clods.

"Oh, my mother!" I exclaimed, and strange and dreary sounded my voice in that breathing stillness. "Has God heard thy prayers? Will he hear the cries of the fatherless? Will he have pity on my forsaken youth?"

I would have given worlds to have realized that this mighty God was near; that he indeed cared with a father's love for the orphan mourner, committed in faith to his all-embracing arms. But I still worshipped him as far-off, enthroned on high, in the heaven of heavens, which cannot contain the full glory of his presence. I saw him on the burning mountain, in the midst of thunder and lightning and smoke,—a God of consuming fire, before whose breath earthly joys and hopes withered and dried, like blossoms cast into the furnace.

But did not God once hide his face of love from his own begotten Son? And shall not the eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani of the forsaken heart sometimes ascend amid the woes and trials and wrongs of life, from the great mountain of human misery, the smoking Sinai, whose clouded summit quakes with the footsteps of Deity?



CHAPTER XXIII.

I again resumed the manuscript, trembling for the revelations which it might make.

"Never again," wrote my mother, "did I behold my noble, gallant father. His death was sudden, as if shot down in the battle field, without one warning weakness or pain. In the green summer of his days he fell, and long did my heart vibrate from the shock. How desolate to me was the home to which I returned! The household fire was indeed extinguished. The household god laid low. I saw at one glance that in my breast alone his memory was enshrined; that there alone was sacred incense burning. Mrs. Lynn, (I will speak of her by her name hereafter,) though only one year had passed since his death, was assuming those light, coquettish airs which accord as little with the robes of widowhood as the hues of the rainbow or the garlands of spring.

"I saw with exquisite pain and shame, that she looked upon me as a rival of her maturer charms, and gladly yielded to my wish for retirement. She always spoke of me as 'the child,' the 'little bookworm,' impressing upon the minds of all the idea of my extreme juvenility. I was young; but I had arrived to years of womanhood, and my stature equalled hers.

"I will pass on to the scene which decided my destiny. I do not wish to swell the volume of my life. Let it be brief as it is sad.

"Very near the fortress is another rocky bulwark, rising out of the waves in stern and rugged majesty, known by the peculiar name of the Rip-Raps. It is the work of man, who paved the ocean bed with rocks, and conceived the design of a lofty castle, from whose battlements the star-spangled banner should wave, and whose massy turrets should perpetuate the honors of Carolina's most gifted son. The design was grand, but has never been completed. It has, however, finished apartments, which form a kind of summer hotel, where many statesmen often resort, that they may lay down, for a while, the burden of care, and breathe an atmosphere pure from political corruption, and cool from party zeal and strife.

"At the time of which I speak the chief magistrate of the nation sought refuge there for a short while, from the oppressive responsibilities of his exalted station, and regardless of his wish for retirement, or rather irresistibly impelled to pay honors to one whose brows were wreathed with the soldier's laurel as well as the statesman's crown, every one sought his rocky and wave-washed retreat.

"Mrs. Lynn joined a party of ladies, who, escorted by officers, went over in barges to be introduced to the gallant veteran. The martial spirit of my father throbbed high in my bosom, and I longed to behold one, whom he would have delighted to honor. Mrs. Lynn did not urge me, but there were others who supplied her deficiency, and convinced me I was not considered an intruder. Among the gentlemen who composed our party was a stranger, by the name of St. James, to whom Mrs. Lynn paid the most exclusive attention. She was still in the bloom of womanhood, and though far from being beautiful, was showy and attractive. All the embellishments of dress were called into requisition to enhance the charms of nature, and to produce the illusion of youth. She always sought the admiration of strangers, and Mr. St. James was sufficiently distinguished in appearance to render him worthy of her fascinations. I merely noticed that he had a fine person, a graceful air, and a musical voice; then casting my eyes on the sea-green waters, over which our light barge was bounding, I did not lift them again till we were near the dark gray rocks of the Rip-Raps, and I beheld on the brink of the stone steps we were to ascend, a tall and stately form, whose foam-white locks were rustling in the breeze of ocean. There he stood, like the statue of liberty, throned on a granite cliff, with waves rolling below and sunbeams resting on his brow.

"As we stepped from the barge and ascended the rugged steps, the chieftain bent his warlike figure and drew us to the platform with all the grace and gallantry of youth. As I was the youngest of the party, he received me with the most endearing familiarity. I almost thought he was going to kiss me, so close he brought his bronzed cheek to mine.

"'God bless you, my child!' said he, taking both hands in his and looking earnestly in my face. 'I knew your father well. He was a gallant officer,—a noble, honest man. Peace to his ashes! The soldier fills an honored grave.'

"This tribute to my father's memory filled my eyes with tears, while my cheek glowed with gratified pride. I was proud that I was a soldier's daughter, proud to hear his praise from the lips of valor and of rank.

"I had brought a beautiful bouquet of flowers as a girlish offering to the veteran. I had been thinking of something pretty and poetical to say when I presented it, but the words died on my lips, and I extended it in silence with the trembling hand of diffidence.

"'Now,' said he, with a benignant smile, turning the flowers round and round, as if admiring them all, 'I am the envy of every young man present. They would all exchange the laurels of the soldier for the blossoms gathered by the hand of beauty.'

"'Let me have the privilege of holding them for you, sir, while we remain,' said Mr. St. James, with a courtly grace consistent with the name he bore, and they were submitted with equal courtesy to his keeping.

"These are trifles to relate, my Gabriella, but they had an influence on my life and yours. They laid the foundation of a dislike and jealousy in the mind of my step-mother, that embittered all our future intercourse. 'The child' was distinguished, not only by the hero who was the lion of the scene, but by the stranger she was resolved to charm, and her usually bright countenance was clouded with malice and discontent. Forgetful of politeness, she hurried away those who came in the same barge with herself, anxious to see me immured once more in the walls of the Fort.

"After our distinguished host had bidden farewell to his elder guests, whom he accompanied to the steps, he turned to me with a look so benign and affectionate I never shall forget it, and stooping, kissed my forehead.

"'As your father's friend, and your country's father, dear child, permit me'—he said, then giving my hand to St. James, who was waiting to assist me into the barge, bowed a dignified adieu.

"'You do indeed make us envy you, sir,' cried St. James, as he stood with uncovered head in the centre of the boat, while it glided from the walls, and holding up the bouquet which he had had the boldness to retain.

"The statesman smiled and shook his snow-crowned head, and there he stood, long after we receded from the rocks, his tall, erect figure defined on the dark blue sky.

"I never saw that noble form again. The brave old soldier died a soldier of the Cross, and fills a Christian's grave. He sleeps in death, embosomed in the quiet shades he loved best in life.

'And Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To deck the turf that wraps his clay.'

"I did not think of paying this tribute to his memory; but that scene was so indelibly stamped on my mind, I could not help delineating it. It was then and there I first beheld your father.

"The barge was rowed by eight soldiers, dressed in uniform, and their oars all dipped and flashed with simultaneous motion. Nothing could be more harmoniously beautiful; but the restless spirit of Mrs. Lynn suggested a change.

"'Raise the sail,' she exclaimed, 'this is too monotonous. I prefer it a thousand times to rowing.'

"'I beg, I entreat, madam,' cried I, unable to repress my apprehensions, 'do not have it done now. I am very foolish, but I cannot help it, indeed I cannot.'

"I was not accustomed to the water as she was, having been absent so long; and even when a child, I had an unconquerable dread of sailing. She knew this, and it prompted her suggestion.

"'Affectation of fear may be pardoned in a child, Rosalie,' said she, with a sarcastic smile, 'but it is nevertheless very unbecoming.'

"'Do not indulge one apprehension,' exclaimed St. James, stepping over one of the seats and sitting down at my side. 'I am one of the best sailors in the world. Non timui—Caesarem vehis. Give the sails to the winds, boys. I will make them my vassals.'

"His eyes beamed with conscious power, as the white sheet unrolled and swelled gracefully in the breeze. It was strange, all my fears were gone, and I felt as serene a confidence as if his vaunting words were true. The strong will, the magic smile were acting on me like a spell, and I yielded unresistingly to their influence.

"Mrs. Lynn would gladly have revoked her commands, since they had called forth such an expression of interest for me; but the boat swept on with triumphant speed, and even I participated in the exhilaration of its motion. Just before we reached the shore, Mrs. Lynn bent forward and took the flowers from the hand of St. James before he was aware of her design.

"'Is that mignonette which is so oppressively fragrant?' she asked, lifting the bouquet to her nose. She was seated near the side of the barge, and her head was gracefully inclined. Whether from accident or design, I think it was the latter, the flowers dropped into the river.

"In the flashing of an eye-glance, St. James leaped over the boat side, seized the flowers, held them up in triumph over his head, and swam to the shore. He stood there with dripping garments and smiling lips as we landed, while the paleness of terror still blanched my face, and its agitation palpitated in my heart.

"'I must deny myself the pleasure of escorting you to the threshold,' said he, glancing at me, while he shook the brine-drops from his arms. His head had not been submerged. He had held that royally above the waves. 'But,' added he, with graceful gallantry, 'I have rescued a trophy which I had silently vowed to guard with my life;—a treasure doubly consecrated by the touch of valor and the hand of beauty.'

"'Well,' exclaimed Mrs. Lynn, as soon as we were at home, tossing her bonnet disdainfully on the sofa, 'if I ever was disgusted with boldness and affectation I have been to-day. But one thing let me tell you, Miss Rosalie, if you cannot learn more propriety of manners, if you make such sickening efforts to attract the attention of strangers, I will never allow you to go in public, at least in company with me.'

"I was perfectly thunderstruck. She had never given such an exhibition of temper before. I had always thought her cold and selfish, but she seemed to have a careless good-nature, which did not prepare me for this ebullition of passion. I did not reflect that this was the first time I had clashed with her interests,—that inordinate vanity is the parent of envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness.

"I did not attempt to reply, but hastily turned to leave the room. She had been my father's wife, and the sacredness of his name shielded her from disrespect.

"'Stop, Miss,' she cried, 'and hear what I have to say. If Mr. St. James calls this evening, you are not to make your appearance. He was only making sport of your childishness to-day, and cares no more for you than the sands of the sea-shore. He is no company for you, I assure you. He is a gentleman of the world, and has no taste for the bread and butter misses just let loose from a boarding-school. Do you hear me?'

"'I do, madam.'

"'Do you mean to obey?'

"'I do, madam.'

"I will not attempt to describe my feelings that night as I sat alone in my room, and heard the voice of St. James mingling with my step-mother's, which was modulated to its sweetest, most seductive tone. The desolateness of my future life spread out before me. A home without love! Oh, what dreariness! Oh, what iciness! Had my father lived, how different it would have been. I thought of the happy vacation, when he opened his warm heart and took me in, and then I wept to think how cold the world seemed since he had left it.

"It was a midsummer's night, and all the windows were open to admit the sea-born breeze. They were open, but bars of gauze wire were put up at the windows and doors to exclude the mosquitos. A very small balcony opened out of my room, where I usually sat listening to the inspiring strains of the band, that, marching on the ramparts, sent their rich, thrilling notes in rolling echoes over the moonlight waves.

"It was playing now, that martial band, and the bay was one sheet of burning silver. I had never seen it look so resplendently beautiful, and I could not help thinking that beneath that gently rippling glory, there was peace for the sad and persecuted heart. As I sat there leaning on the railing, gazing into the shining depths of ocean, St. James passed. It was very early in the evening. Why had he left so soon? He started, paused, turned, and approached the balcony.

"'Why are you so cruel as to refuse to see me, after showing such knightly devotion to your cause?' he asked, leaning on the side of the balcony and looking earnestly in my face, on which the tear-drops were still glittering.

"'I have not refused,' I answered hastily, 'but do not wait to talk with me now. Mrs. Lynn would be much displeased; she would consider it very improper. I pray you not to think me rude, but indeed I must retire.'

"I rose in an agony of terror, lest my step-mother should hear his voice, and wreak her wrath on me.

"'Fear not,' he cried, catching my hand and detaining me. 'She is engaged with company, who will not hasten away as I have done. I will not stay long, nor utter one syllable that is not in harmony with the holy tranquillity of the hour. I am a stranger in name, but is there not something that tells you I was born to be your friend? I know there is,—I see it in your ingenuous, confiding eye. Only answer me one question,—Was it your own will, or the will of another that governed your actions to-night?'

"'The will of another,' I answered. 'Let that be a sufficient reason for urging your departure. If I am forbidden to see you in the parlor, I shall certainly be upbraided for speaking with you here.'

"It was very imprudent in me to speak so freely of my step-mother's conduct. No questions of his should have drawn from me such an assertion. But I was so young and inexperienced, and I had been goaded almost to madness by her stinging rebukes. It was natural that I should wish to vindicate myself from the charge of rudeness her misrepresentations would bring against me.

"'I find you in sadness and tears,' said he, in a low, gentle tone; so low it scarcely rose above the murmuring waves. 'They should not be the companions of beauty and youth. Let me be your friend,—let me teach you how to banish them.'

"'No, no,' I cried, frightened at my own boldness in continuing the conversation so long. 'You are not my friend, or you would not expose me to censure. Indeed you are not.'

"'I am gone; but tell me one thing,—you are not a prisoner?'

"'O no; heaven forbid.'

"'You walk on the ramparts.'

"'Sometimes.'

"'Adieu,—we shall meet again.'

"He was gone, and sweetly lingered in my ear the echo of his gently persuasive voice. He had vanished like the bark that had just glided along the waters, and like that had left a wake of brightness behind.

"I could not sleep. Excitement kept me wakeful and restless. I heard the measured tread of the sentinel walking his 'lonely round,' and it did not sound louder than the beating of my own heart. Hark! a soft, breezy sound steals up just beneath my window. It is the vibration of the guitar,—a deeptoned, melodious voice accompanies it. It is the voice of St. James. He sings, and the strains fall upon the stilly night, soft as the silver dew.

"Gabriella, I told you with my dying lips never to unseal this manuscript till you were awakened to woman's destiny,—love. If you do not sympathize with my emotions, lay it down, my child, the hour is not yet come. If you have never heard a voice, whose faintest tones sink into the lowest depths of your soul,—if you have never met a glance, whose lightning rays penetrate to the innermost recesses of the heart, reseal these pages. The feelings with which you cannot sympathize will seem weakness and folly, and a daughter must not scorn a mother's bosom record.

"Remember how lonely, how unfriended I was. The only eye that had beamed on me with love was closed in death, the only living person on whom I had any claims was cruel and unkind. Blame me not that I listened to a stranger's accents, that I received his image into my heart, that I enthroned it there, and paid homage to the kingly guest.

"It is in vain to linger thus. I met him again and again. I learned to measure time and space by one line—where he was, and where he was not. I learned to bear harshness, jeering, and wrong, because a door of escape was opened, and the roses of paradise seemed blushing beyond. I suffered him to be my friend—lover—husband."

I dropped the manuscript that I might clasp my hands in an ecstasy of gratitude—

"My God,—I thank thee!" I exclaimed, sinking on my knees, and repeating the emphatic words: "friend—lover-husband." "God of my mother, forgive my dark misgivings."

Now I could look up. Now I could hold the paper with a firm hand. There was nothing in store that I could not bear to hear, no misfortune I had not courage to meet. Alas! alas!



CHAPTER XXIV.

"Yes," continued my mother; "we were married within heaven dedicated walls by a man of God, and the blessing of the holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity was pronounced upon our union. Remember this, my dearly beloved child, remember that in the bosom of the church, surrounded by all the solemnities of religion, with the golden ring, the uttered vow, and on bended knee, I was wedded to Henry Gabriel St. James.

"My step-mother refused to be present. She had sufficient regard to the world's opinion to plead indisposition as an excuse; but it was a false one. She never forgave me for winning the love of the man whom she had herself resolved to charm, and from the hour of our introduction to the day of my marriage, my life was clouded by the gloom of her ill temper.

"We immediately departed for New York, where St. James resided, and our bridal home was adorned with all the elegancies which classic taste could select, and prodigal love lavish upon its idol. I was happy then, beyond the dream of imagination. St. James was the fondest, the kindest, the tenderest—O my God! must I add—the falsest of human beings? I did not love him then—I worshipped, I adored him. I have told you that my childish imagination was fed by wild, impassioned romances, and I had made to myself an ideal image, round which, like the maid of France, I hung the garlands of fancy, and knelt before its shrine.

"Whatever has been my after fate, I have known the felicity of loving in all its length and breadth and strength. And he, too, loved me passionately, devotedly. Strong indeed must have been the love that triumphed over principle, honor, and truth, that broke the most sacred of human ties, and dared the vengeance of retributive Heaven.

"St. James was an artist. He was not dependent entirely on his genius for his subsistence, though his fortune was not large enough to enable him to live in splendid indolence. He had been in Europe for the last few years, wandering amid the ruins of Italy, studying the grand old masters, summering in the valleys of Switzerland, beneath the shadow of its mountain heights, and polishing his bold, masterly sketches among the elegant artists of Paris.

"With what rapture I listened to his glowing descriptions of foreign lands, and what beautiful castles we built where we were to dwell together in the golden clime of Italy or the sunny bowers of France!

"At length, my Gabriella, you were given to my arms, and the deep, pure fountain of a mother's love welled in my youthful bosom. But my life was wellnigh a sacrifice to yours. For weeks it hung trembling on a thread slender and weak as the gossamer's web. St. James watched over me, as none but guardian angels could watch, and I had another faithful and devoted nurse, our good and matchless Peggy. To her unsleeping vigilance, her strong heart and untiring arm, I owe in a great measure the restoration of my health, or rather the preservation of my life; my health was never entirely renovated.

"When you were about five or six months old, St. James came to me with a troubled countenance. He was summoned away, very unexpectedly. He would probably be obliged to go as far as Texas before his return; he might be absent a month. Business of a perplexing nature, which it was impossible to explain then, called him from me, but he would shorten as much as possible the days of absence which would be dreary and joyless to him. I was overwhelmed with grief at the thought of his leaving me; my nerves were still weak, and I wept in all the abandonment of sorrow. I feared for him the dangers that beset the path of the traveller—sickness, death; but I feared not for his honor or truth. I relied upon his integrity, as I did upon the promises of the Holy Scriptures. I did hot urge him to explain the motives of his departure, satisfied that they were just and honorable.

"Oh! little did I think,—when he clasped me in a parting embrace when he committed us both so tenderly and solemnly to the guardianship of our Heavenly Father,—little did I think I should so soon seek to rend him from my heart as a vile, accursed monster; that I should shrink from the memory of his embraces as from the coils of the serpent, the fangs of the wolf. God in his mercy veils the future, or who could bear the burden of coming woe!

"A few days after his departure, as I was seated in the nursery, watching your innocent witcheries as you lay cradled in the lap of Peggy, I was told a lady wished to see me. It was too early an hour for fashionable calls, and I went into the parlor expecting to meet one of those ministering spirits, who go about on errands of mercy, seeking the aid of the rich for the wants of the poor.

"A lady was standing with her back to the door, seemingly occupied in gazing at a picture over the mantel-piece, an exquisite painting of St. James. Her figure was slight and graceful, and she struck me at once as having a foreign air. She turned round at my entrance, exhibiting a pale and agitated countenance; a countenance which though not beautiful, was painfully interesting. She had a soft olive complexion, and a full melancholy black eye, surcharged with tears.

"I motioned her to a seat, for I could not speak. Her agitation was contagious, and I waited in silent trepidation to learn the mystery of her emotion.

"'Forgave me this intrusion,' said she, in hesitating accents; 'you look so young, so innocent, so lovely, my heart misgives me. I cannot, I dare not.'

"She spoke in French, a language of which I was mistress, and I recognized at once the land of her birth. She paused, as if unable to proceed, while I sat, pale and cold as marble, wondering what awful revelation she would, but dared not make. Had she come to tell me of my husband's death,—was my first agonized thought, and I faintly articulated,—

"'My husband!'

"'Your husband! Poor, deluded young creature. Alas! alas! I can forgive him for deserting me, but not for deceiving and destroying you.'

"I started to my feet with a galvanic spring. My veins tingled as if fire were running through them, and my hair rose, startling with electric horror. I grasped her arm with a force she might have felt through covering steel, and looking her steadfastly in the face, exclaimed,—

"'He is my husband; mine in the face of God and man. He is my husband, and the father of my child. I will proclaim it in the face of earth and heaven. I will proclaim it till my dying day. How dare you come to me with slanders so vile, false, unprincipled woman?'

"She recoiled a few steps from me, and held up her deprecating hands.

"'Have pity upon me, for I am very wretched,' she cried; 'were it not for my child I would die in silence and despair, rather than rouse you from your fatal dream, but I cannot see him robbed of his rights. I cannot see another usurping the name and place he was born to fill. Madam,' continued she, discarding her supplicating tone, and speaking with dignity and force, 'I am no false, unprincipled woman, inventing tales which I cannot corroborate. I am a wife, as pure in heart, as upright in purpose as you can be,—a mother as tender. Forsaken by him whom in spite of my wrongs I still too fondly love, I have left my native land, crossed the ocean's breadth, come a stranger to a strange country, that I might appeal to you for redress, and tell you that if you still persist in calling him your own, it will be in defiance of the laws of man and the canons of the living God.'

"As she thus went on, her passions became roused, and flashed and darkened in her face with alternations so quick they mocked the sight. She spoke with the rapid tongue and impressive gesticulation of her country, and God's truth was stamped on every word. I felt it,—I knew it. She was no base, lying impostor. She was a wronged and suffering woman;—and he,—the idol of my soul,—the friend, lover, husband of my youth,—no, no! he could not be a villain! She was mad,—ha, ha,—she was mad! Bursting into a wild, hysteric laugh, I sunk back on the sofa, repeating,—

"'Poor thing, she is mad! I wonder I did not know it sooner.'

"'No, madam, I am not mad,' she cried, in calmer tones; 'I sometimes wish I were. I am in the full possession of my reason, as I can abundantly prove. But little more than three years since, I was married to Gabriel Henry St. James, in Paris, my native city, and here is the certificate which proves the truth of my assertion.'

"Taking a paper from her pocket-book, she held it towards me, so that I could read the writing, still retaining it in her own hand. I did not blame her,—oh, no! I should have done the same. I saw, what seemed blazing in fire, the names of Henry Gabriel St. James and Theresa Josephine La Fontaine united in marriage by the usual formula of the church.

"I did not attempt to snatch it from her, or to destroy the fatal paper. I gazed upon it till the characters swelled out like black chords, and writhed in snaky convolutions.

"'Do you recognize this?' she asked, taking from her bosom a gold case, and touching a spring. It flew open and revealed the handsome features of St. James, beaming with the same expression as when I first beheld him, an expression I remembered but too well. She turned it in the case, and I saw written on the back in gold letters, 'For my beloved wife, Theresa Josephine.'

"It was enough. The certificate might be a forgery, her tale a lie; but this all but breathing picture, these indubitable words, were proofs of blasting power. Cold, icy shiverings ran through my frame,—a cold, benumbing weight pressed down my heart,—a black abyss opened before me,—the earth heaved and gave way beneath me. With a shriek that seemed to breathe out my life, I fell forward at the feet of her whom I had so guiltlessly wronged."

* * * * *

Thus far had I read, with clenching teeth and rigid limbs, and brow on which chill, deadly drops were slowly gathering, when my mother's shriek seemed suddenly to ring in my ears,—the knell of a broken heart, a ruined frame,—and I sprang up and looked wildly round me. Where was I? Who was I?

Were the heavens turned to brass and the sun to blood, or was yon saffron belt the gold of declining day,—yon crimson globe, the sun rolling through a hazy, sultry atmosphere? What meant that long green mound stretching at my side, that broken shaft, twined with the cypress vine? I clasped both hands over my temples, as these questions drifted through my mind, then bending my knees, I sunk lower and lower, till my head rested on the grave. I was conscious of but one wish—to stay there and die. The bolt of indelible disgrace quivered in my heart; why should I wish to live?



CHAPTER XXV.

I did not become insensible, but I was dead to surrounding objects, dead to the present, dead to the future. The past, the terrible, the inexorable past, was upon me, trampling me, grinding me with iron heel, into the dust of the grave. I could not move, for its nightmare weight crushed me. I could not see, for its blackness shrouded me; nor hear, for its shrieks deafened me. Had I remained long in that awful condition, I should have become a maniac.

"Gabriella!" said a voice, which at any other moment would have wakened a thrill of rapture, "Gabriella, speak,—look up. Why do you do this? Why will you not speak? Do you not hear me?"

I did try to speak, but my tongue seemed frozen. I did try to lift my head, but in vain.

Ernest Linwood, for it was he, knelt down by me, and putting his arms round me, raised me from the ground, without any volition of my own. I know not what state I was in. I was perfectly conscious; but had no more power over the movement of a muscle than if I were dead. My eyes were closed, and my head drooped on his breast, as he raised me, bowed by its own weight. I was in a kind of conscious catalepsy. He was alarmed, terrified. As he afterwards told me, he really believed me dead, and clasping me to him with an energy of which he was not aware, adjured me in the most tender and passionate manner to speak and tell him that I lived.

"Gabriella, my flower-girl, my darling!" he cried, pressing my cheek with those pure, despairing kisses with which love hallows death. Had I indeed passed the boundaries of life, for my spirit alone was conscious of caresses, whose remembrance thrilled through my being.

The reaction was instantaneous. The chilled blood grew warm and rushed through every vein with wild rapidity. Then I became physically conscious, and glowing with confusion I raised myself from my reclining position, and attempted to look up into the face of Ernest. But I could not do it. Contending emotions deprived me of the power of self-command.

"This is madness, Gabriella! This is suicide!" he exclaimed, lifting me from the grave, and still supporting me with his arm. "Why do you come here to nurse a grief so far beyond the limits of reason and religion? Why do you give your friends such exquisite pain, yourself such unnecessary misery?"

"Do not reproach me," I cried. "You know not what cause I have for anguish and despair."

"Despair, Gabriella! You cannot know the meaning of that word. Despair belongs to guilt, and even that is not hopeless. And why do you come to this lone place of graves to weep, as if human sympathy were denied to your sorrows? Is not my mother kind,—is not Edith tender and affectionate? Am not I worthy to be trusted, as a friend,—a protector,—a redresser; and if need be, an avenger of wrongs?"

"My own wrongs I might reveal; but those of the dead are sacred," I answered, stooping down and gathering up the manuscript, which was half concealed in the long, damp grass. "But do not think me ungrateful. What I owe to your mother and Edith words can never tell. In every prayer I breathe to heaven I shall call down blessings on their head. And you too,—you have been more than kind. I never can forget it."

"If it be not too presumptuous, I will unite your name with theirs, and pray that God may bless you, now and ever more."

"This will never do," said he, drawing me forcibly from the mournful place. "You must confide in my mother, Gabriella. A dark secret is a plague spot in the heart. Confide in my mother. It is due to her maternal love and guardianship. And beware of believing that any thing independent of yourself can alienate her affections. Can you walk? If it were not for leaving you alone, I would go and return with the carriage."

"Oh, yes; I am quite well and strong again."

"Then lean on me, Gabriella. Shrink not from an arm which would gladly protect you from every danger and every wrong. Let us hasten, lest I utter words which I would not for worlds associate with a scene so cold and sad. Not where the shadow of death falls—no—not here."

He hurried me through the gate, and then paused.

"Rest here a moment," said he, "and recover your composure. We may meet with those who would wonder to see you thus, with your hair wildly flowing, your scarf loose and disordered."

"Thank you," I exclaimed, my thoughts coming to the surface, and resting there with shame. I had forgotten that my bonnet was in my hand, that my comb had fallen, leaving my hair loose and dishevelled. Gathering up its length, and twisting it in thick folds around my head, I confined it with my bonnet, and smoothing my thin scarf, I took his arm in silence, and walked on through the purple gloom of twilight that deepened before us. Slight shivers ran through my frame. The dampness of the grave-yard clung to me, and the night dews were beginning to fall.

"Are you cold, Gabriella?" he asked, folding my light mantle more closely round me. "You are not sufficiently protected from the dewy air. You are weary and chill. You do not lean on me. You do not confide in me."

"In whom should I confide, then? Without father, brother, or protector, in whom should I confide, if ungrateful and untrusting I turn from you?"

As I said this, I suffered my arm to rest more firmly on his, for my steps were indeed weary, and we were now ascending the hill. My heart was deeply touched by his kindness, and the involuntary ejaculations he uttered, the involuntary caresses he bestowed, when he believed me perfectly unconscious, were treasured sacredly there. We were now by the large elm-tree that shaded the way-side, beneath whose boughs I had so often paused to gaze on the valley below. Without speaking, he led me to this resting-place, and we both looked back, as wayfarers are wont to do when they stop in an ascending path.

Calmly the shadows rested on the landscape, softly yet darkly they rolled down the slope of the neighboring hills and the distant mountains. In thin curlings, the gray smoke floated upwards and lay slumberously among the fleecy clouds. Here and there a mansion, lifted above the rest, shed from its glowing windows the reflection of departing day. Bright on the dusky gold of the west the evening-star shone and throbbed, like a pure love-thought in the heart of night; and, dimly glimmering above the horizon, the giant pen seemed writing the Mene Tekel of my clouded destiny on the palace walls of heaven.

As we thus stood, lifted above the valley, involved in shadows, silent and alone, I could hear the beating of my heart, louder and louder in the breathing stillness.

"Gabriella!" said Ernest, in a low voice, and that master-chord which no hand but his had touched, thrilled at the sound. "If the spot on which we stand were a desert island, and the valley stretching around us the wide waste of ocean, and we the only beings in the solitude of nature, with your hand thus clasped in mine, and my heart thus throbbing near, with a love so strong, so deep, it would be to you in place of the whole world beside,—tell me, could you be happy?"

"I could," was the low, irresistible answer; and my soul, like an illuminated temple, flashed with inward light. I covered my eyes to keep in the dazzling rays. I forgot the sad history of wrongs and disgrace which I had just been perusing;—I forgot that such words had breathed into my mother's ear, and that she believed them. I only remembered that Ernest Linwood loved me, and that love surrounded me with a luminous atmosphere, in which joy and hope fluttered their heavenly wings.

How slight a thing will change the current of thought! I caught a glimpse of the granite walls of Grandison Place, and darkened by the shades, they seemed to frown upon me with their high turret and lofty colonnade, so ancestral and imposing. Then I remembered Mrs. Linwood and Edith,—then I remembered my mother, my father, and all the light went out in my heart.

"I had forgotten,—oh, how much I had forgotten," I cried, endeavoring to release myself from the arm that only tightened its hold. "Your mother never would forgive my presumption if she thought,—if she knew."

"My mother loves you; but even if she did not, I am free to act, free to choose, as every man should be. I love and revere my mother, but there is a passion stronger than filial love and reverence, which goes on conquering and to conquer. She will not, she cannot oppose me."

"But Edith, dear Edith, who loves you so devotedly! She will hate me if I dare to supplant her."

"A sister never can be supplanted,—and least of all such a sister as Edith, Gabriella. If you do not feel that love so expands, so enlarges the heart, that it makes room for all the angels in heaven, you could not share my island home."

"If you knew all,—if I could tell you all," I cried,—and again I felt the barbed anguish that prostrated me at the grave,—"and you shall know,—your generous love demands this confidence. When your mother has read the history of my parentage, I will place it in your hands; though my mother's character is as exalted and spotless as your own, there is a cloud over my name that will for ever rest upon it. Knowing that, you cannot, you will not wish to unite your noble, brilliant destiny with mine. This hour will be remembered as a dream, a bright, but fleeting dream."

"What do I care for the past?" he exclaimed, detaining me as I endeavored to move on. "Talk not of a clouded name. Will not mine absorb it? What shaft of malice can pierce you, with my arm as a defence, and my bosom as a shield? Gabriella, it is you that I love, not the dead and buried past. You are the representative of all present joy and hope. I ask for nothing but your love,—your exclusive, boundless love,—a love that will be ready to sacrifice every thing but innocence and integrity for me,—that will cling to me in woe as in weal, in shame as in honor, in death as in life. Such is the love I give; and such I ask in return. Is it mine? Tell me not of opposing barriers; only tell me what your heart this moment dictates; forgetful of the past, regardless of the future? Is this love mine?"

"It is," I answered, looking up through fast-falling tears. "Why will you wring this confession from me, when you only know it too well?"

"One question more, Gabriella, for your truth-telling lips to answer. Is this love only given in return? Did it not spring spontaneously forth from the warmth and purity of your own heart, without waiting the avowal of mine? Gratitude is not love. It is stone, not bread, to a spirit as exacting as mine."

Again the truth was forced from me by his unconquerable will,—a will that opened the secret valves of thought, and rolled away the rock from the fountain of feeling. Even then I felt the despotism as well as the strength of his love.

I cannot, I dare not, repeat all that he uttered. It would be deemed too extravagant, too high-wrought. And so it was. Let woman tremble rather than exult, when she is the object of a passion so intense. The devotion of her whole being cannot satisfy its inordinate demands. Though the flame of the sacrifice ascend to heaven, it still cries, "Bring gifts to the altar,—bring the wine of the banquet,—the incense of the temple,—the fuel of the hearth-stone. Bring all, and still I crave. Give all, I ask for more."

Not then was this warning suggested. To be wildly, passionately loved, was my heart's secret prayer. Life itself would be a willing sacrifice to this devotion. Suspicion that stood sentinel at the door of Faith, Distrust that threw its shadow over the sunshine of truth, and Jealousy, doubting, yet adoring still, would be welcomed as household guests, if the attendants of this impassioned love. Such was the dream of my girlhood.

When we entered the lawn, lights began to glimmer in the house. I trembled at the idea of meeting Mrs. Linwood, or the Amazonian Meg. There was a side door through which I might pass unobserved, and by this ingress I sought my chamber and locked the door. A lamp was burning on the table. Had I lingered abroad so late? Had the absence of Ernest been observed?

I sat down on the side of the bed, threw off my bonnet and scarf, shook my hair over my shoulders, and pushed it back with both hands from my throbbing temples. I wanted room. Such crowding thoughts, such overflowing emotions, could not be compressed in those four walls. I rose and walked the room back and forth, without fear of being over-heard, on the soft carpet of velvet roses. What revelations had been made known to me since I had quitted that room! How low I had been degraded,—how royally exalted! A child unentitled to her father's name!—a maiden, endowed with a princely heart! I walked as one in a dream, doubting my own identity. But one master thought governed every other.

"He loves me!" I repeated to myself. "Ernest Linwood loves me! Whatever be the future, that present bliss is mine. I have tasted woman's highest, holiest joy,—the joy of loving and being beloved. Sorrow and trial may be mine; but this remembrance will remain, a blessed light through the darkness of time,—'a star on eternity's ocean.'"

As I passed and repassed the double mirror, my reflected figure seemed an apparition gliding by my side, I paused and stood before one of them, and I thought of the time when, first awakened to the consciousness of personal influence, I gazed on my own image. Some writer has said, "that every woman is beautiful when she loves." There certainly is a light, coming up from the enkindled heart, bright as the solar ray, yet pure and soft as moonlight, which throws an illusion over the plainest features and makes them for the moment charming. I saw the flower-girl of the library in the mirror, and then I knew that the artist had intended her as the idealization of Love's image.

And then I remembered the morning when we sat together in the library, and he took the roses from my basket and scattered the leaves at my feet.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A thundering rap at the door startled my meditations. I knew there was but one pair of knuckles in the house capable of beating such a tattoo, and I recoiled from admitting such a boisterous guest.

"Gabriella, Gabriella!" rung a voice through the passage. "Are you asleep? Are you dead? Open the door, pray, or I shall kill myself squeezing in through the key-hole."

With a deep sigh of vexation, I opened the door, and she sprang in with the momentum of a ball hurled by a bat.

"My dear creature!" she exclaimed, catching me round the waist and turning me to the light, "what have you been doing? where have you been staying? Ill!—tired!—it is all a sham. He need not try to impose on me such a story as that. I never saw you look so brilliantly well. Your cheeks and lips are red like the damask rose, and your eyes,—I never saw such eyes before. Come here and look in the glass. Ill!—ha, ha!"

"I have been ill," I answered, shrinking from her reckless hand, "and I was very tired; I feel better now."

"Yes, I should think you did. You rested long enough by the way, Heaven knows; we saw you climbing the hill at sunset, and the lamps were lighted before you came in. I was going after you, but Mrs. Linwood would not let me. Ah! you have animated the statue, thou modern Pygmaliona. You have turned back into flesh this enchanted man of stone. Tell it in Gath, publish it in Askelon; but the daughters of fashion will mourn, the tribes of the neglected will envy."

"I cannot match you in brilliant speeches, Miss Melville."

"Call me Miss Melville again, if you dare. Call me Madge, or Meg; but as sure as you mount the stilts of ceremony, I will whisk you off at the risk of breaking your neck. Hark! there is the supper bell. Come, just as you are. You never looked so charming. That wild flow of the hair is perfectly bewitching. I don't wonder Mr. Invincible has grounded his weapons, not I. If I were a young man,—ha, ha!"

"I sometimes fear you are," I cried. At this remark she burst into such a wild fit of laughter, I thought she never would cease. It drowned the ringing of the bell, and still kept gushing over afresh.

"Ask Mrs. Linwood to excuse me from supper," said I; "I do not wish any, indeed I do not."

Well, I am not one of the air plants; I must have something more substantial than sentiment, or I should pine with green and yellow hunger, not melancholy. I never cried but once, that I recollect, and that was when a favorite black cat of mine was killed,—maliciously, villanously killed, by an old maid, just because she devoured her favorite Canary. No, with the daughter of Jephthah, I exclaimed,—

'Let my memory still be thy pride, And forget not I smiled as I died.'

Shutting, or rather slamming the door, she bounded down the stairs with the steps of the chamois.

I had not finished my mother's history, but I had passed the breakers. There could be nothing beyond so fearful and wrecking. The remainder was brief, and written at times with a weak and failing hand.

* * * * *

"How long I remained in that deadly swoon," continued the manuscript, "I know not. When I recovered, I was lying on my bed, with Peggy standing on one side and a physician on the other. As soon as I looked up, Peggy burst into tears.

"'Thank God!' she sobbed, 'I thought she was dead.'

"'Hush!' said the doctor; 'let her be kept perfectly quiet. Give her this composing draught, and let no one be admitted to her chamber,—not even her child.'