I leaned my head on his shoulder, and tears and smiles mingling together relieved the oppression of my grateful, blissful heart. I really felt too happy. The intensity of my joy was painful, from its excess.

"This is yours," said he, as we afterwards stood in an apartment whose vaulted ceiling, formed of ground crystal and lighted above by gas, resembled the softest lustre of moonlight. The hangings of the beds and windows were of the richest azure-colored satin, fringed with silver, which seemed the livery of the mansion.

"And this is yours," he added, lifting a damask curtain, which fell over a charming little recess that opened into a beautiful flower bed. "This is a kiosk, where you can sit in the moonlight and make garlands of poetry, which Regulus cannot wither."

"How came you so familiar with the mysteries of this enchanted palace? Is it not novel to you, as well as to me?"

"Do you not recollect that I left you at the hotel for a short time, after our arrival? I accompanied my friend hither, and received from him the clue to these magic apartments. This is a bathing-room," said he, opening one, where a marble bath and ewer, and every luxurious appliance reminded one of Eastern luxury. Even the air had a soft languor in it, as if perfumed breaths had mingled there.

"I should like to see the former mistress of this palace," said I, gazing round with a bewildered smile; "she was probably some magnificent Eastern sultana who reclined under that royal canopy, and received sherbet from the hands of kneeling slaves. She little dreamed of the rustic successor who would tread her marble halls, and revel in the luxuries prepared for her."

"She was a very elegant and intellectual woman, I am told," replied Ernest, "who accompanied her husband in his travels, and assisted him in every enterprise, by the energy of her mind and the constancy of her heart, and whose exquisite taste directed the formation of this graceful structure. She painted the frescos on the ceiling of the boudoir, and that richly tinted picture of an Italian sunset is the work of her hand. This house and its decorations are not as costly as many others in this city, but it has such an air of Asiatic magnificence it produces an illusion on the eye. I wish, myself, it was not quite so showy, but it makes such a charming contrast to the simplicity and freshness of your character I cannot wish it otherwise."

"I fear I shall be spoiled. I shall imagine myself one of those dark-eyed houris, who dwell in the bowers of paradise and welcome the souls of the brave."

"That is no inappropriate comparison," said he; "but you must not believe me an Eastern satrap, Gabriella, who dares not enter his wife's apartment without seeing the signal of admittance at the door. Here is another room opening into this; and pressing a spring, a part of the dividing walls slid back, revealing an apartment of similar dimensions, and furnished with equal elegance.

"This," added he, "was arranged by the master of the mansion for his own accommodation. Here is his library, which seems a mass of burnished gold, from the splendid binding of the books. By certain secret springs the light can be so graduated in this room, that you can vary it from the softest twilight to the full blaze of day."

"The Arabian Nights dramatized!" I exclaimed. "I fear we are walking over trap-doors, whose secret mouths are ready to yawn on the unsuspecting victim."

"Beware then, Gabriella,—I may be one of the genii, whose terrible power no mortal can evade, who can read the thoughts of the heart as easily as the printed page. How would you like to be perused so closely?"

"Would that you could read every thought of my heart, Ernest, every emotion of my soul, then you would know, what words can never express,—the height and depth of my love and devotion—I will not say gratitude—since you reject and disown it,—but that I must ever feel. Can I ever forget the generosity, the magnanimity, which, overlooking the cloud upon my birth, has made me the sharer of your princely destiny, the mistress of a home like this?"

"You do not care for it, only as the expression of my affection; I am sure you do not," he repeated, and his dark gray eye seemed to read the inmost depths of thought.

"Oh, no! a cottage or a palace would be alike to me, provided you are near me. It seems to me now as if I should awake in the morning, and find I had been in a dream. I am not sure that you have not a magic ring on your finger that produces this illusion."

But the morning sunbeams flashed on the softly murmuring fountain, on the white polished forms of the Grecian myths, on the trailing luxuriance of the tropic blossoms. They glanced in on the glittering drapery that wreathed the marble columns, and lighted the crystal dome over my head with a mild, subdued radiance.

A boudoir which I had not seen the evening before elicited my morning admiration,—it was furnished with such exquisite elegance, and contained so many specimens of the fine arts. Two rosewood cabinets, inlaid with pearl, were filled with chefs-d'[oe]uvres from the hands of masters, collected in the old world. They were locked; but through the glass doors I could gaze and admire, and make them all my own. An elegant escritoire was open on the table, the only thing with which I could associate the idea of utility. Yes, there was a harp, that seemed supported by a marble cherub,—a most magnificent instrument. I sighed to think it was useless to me; but Ernest's hand would steal music from its silent strings.

And now behold me installed as mistress of this luxurious mansion, an utter stranger in the heart of a great metropolis!

It was now that I understood the reserve of Ernest's character. It was impossible that we should remain altogether strangers, living in a style which wealth only could sanction. Mr. Harland, the gentleman with whom Ernest had corresponded, moved in the circles of fashion and distinction, and he introduced his friends and acquaintances, being himself a frequent and agreeable visitor. Ernest received our guest with elegance and politeness,—these attributes were inseparable from himself,—but there was a coldness and reserve that seemed to forbid all approach to intimacy. Fearful of displeasing him, I repressed the natural frankness and social warmth of my nature, and I am sure our visitors often departed, chilled and disappointed. The parlor was lined with mirrors, and I could not turn without seeing myself reflected on every side; and not only myself, but an eye that watched my every movement, and an ear that drank in my every word. How could I feel at ease, or do justice to those powers of pleasing with which nature may have gifted me?

Sometimes, though very seldom, Ernest was not present; and then my spirits rebounded from this unnatural constraint, and I laughed and talked like other people. The youthful brightness of my feelings flashed forth, and I forgot that a clouded star presided over my young life.



CHAPTER XXXII.

I would not give the impression that, at this time, I felt hurt at the coldness and reserve of Ernest, as exhibited in society. I was fearful of displeasing him by showing too much pleasure in what did not appear to interest him; but when the door was closed on the departing guest and he exclaimed,—

"Thank heaven! we are once more alone!"

I could not help echoing the sentiment which brought us so close to each other, and rejoiced with him that formality and restraint no longer interfered with the freedom of love and the joys of home. He never appeared so illumined with intellect, so glowing with feeling, as in moments like these; and I was flattered that a mind so brilliant, and a heart so warm, reserved their brightness and their warmth for me. If he was happy with me, and me only, how supremely blest should I be, with a companion so intellectual and fascinating! If Edith were but near, so that I could say to her occasionally, "How happy I am!" if Mrs. Linwood were with me to know that nothing had yet arisen to disturb the heaven of our wedded happiness; if excellent Dr. Harlowe could only call in once in a while, with his pleasant words and genial smiles; or kindly feeling, awkward Mr. Regulus, I should not have a wish ungratified.

It is true I sometimes wished I had something to do, but we had supernumerary servants, and if I found any employment it must have been similar to that of Jack the bean-boy, who poured his beans on the floor and then picked them up again. I was fond of sewing. But the wardrobe of a young bride is generally too well supplied; at least mine was, to admit of much exercise with the needle. I was passionately fond of reading, and of hearing Ernest read; and many an hour every day was devoted to books. But the mind, like the body, can digest only a certain quantity of food, and is oppressed by an excessive portion.

Had Ernest welcomed society, our superb parlor would have been thronged with nightly guests; but he put up bars of ceremony against such intrusion; polished silver they were, it is true, but they were felt to be heavy and strong. He never visited himself, that is, socially. He paid formal calls, as he would an inevitable tax, rejoicing when the wearisome task was over; out beyond the limits of ceremony he could not be persuaded to pass.

Gradually our evening visitors became few,—the cold season advanced, the fountain ceased to play in the grotto, and the beautiful flowers were inclosed in the green-house.

Our rooms were warmed by furnaces below, which diffused a summer temperature through the house. In mine, the heat came up through an exquisite Etruscan vase, covered with flowers, which seemed to emit odor as well as warmth, and threw the illusion of spring over the dullness and gloom of winter. But I missed the glowing hearth of Mrs. Linwood, the brightness and heartiness of her winter fireside.

I never shall forget how I started with horror, when I was conscious of a feeling of ennui, even in the presence of Ernest. It was not possible I should be weary of the joys of heaven, if I were capable of sighing in my own Eden bower. I tried to banish the impression; it WOULD return, and with it self-reproach and shame.

If Ernest had not been lifted by wealth above the necessity of exertion; had he been obliged to exercise the talents with which he was so liberally endowed for his own support and the benefit of mankind; had he some profession which compelled him to mingle in the world, till the too exquisite edge of his sensibilities were blunted by contact with firmer, rougher natures, what a blessing it would have been! With what pride would I have seen him go forth to his daily duties, sure that he was imparting and receiving good. With what rapture would I have welcomed his returning footstep!

Oh! had he been a poor man, he would have been a great man. He was not obliged to toil, either physically or mentally; and indolence is born of luxury, and morbid sensibility luxuriates in the lap of indolence. Forms of beauty and grandeur wait in the marble quarry for the hand of genius and skill. Ingots of gold sleep in the mine, till the explorer fathoms its depths and brings to light the hidden treasures. Labor is the slave of the lamp of life, who alone keeps its flame from waxing dim. When a child, I looked upon poverty as man's greatest curse; but I now thought differently. To feel that every wish is gratified, every want supplied, is almost as dreary as to indulge the wish, and experience the want, without the means of satisfying the cravings of one or the urgency of the other.

Had Ernest been a poor man, he would not have had time to think unceasingly of me. His mind would have been occupied with sterner thoughts and more exalted cares. But rich as he was, I longed to see him live for something nobler than personal enjoyment, to know that he possessed a higher aim than love for me. I did not feel worthy to fill the capacities of that noble heart. I wanted him to love me less, that I might have something more to desire.

"Of what are you thinking so deeply, sweet wife?" he asked, when I had been unconsciously indulging in a long, deep reverie. "What great subject knits so severely that fair young brow?" he repeated, sitting by me, and taking my hand in his.

I blushed, for my thoughts were making bold excursions.

"I was thinking," I answered, looking bravely in his face, "what a blessed thing it must be to do good, to have the will as well as the power to bless mankind."

"Tell me what scheme of benevolence my little philanthropist is forming. What mighty engine would she set in motion to benefit her species?"

"I was thinking how happy a person must feel, who was able to establish an asylum for the blind or the insane, a hospital for the sick, or a home for the orphan. I was thinking how delightful it would be to go out into the byways of poverty, the abodes of sickness and want, and bid their inmates follow me, where comfort and ease and plenty awaited them. I was thinking, if I were a man, how I would love to be called the friend and benefactor of mankind; but, being a woman, how proud and happy I should be to follow in the footsteps of such a good and glorious being, and hear the blessings bestowed upon his name."

I spoke with earnestness, and my cheeks glowed with enthusiasm. I felt the clasp of his hand tighten as he drew me closer to his side.

"You have been thinking," he said, in his peculiarly grave, melodious accents, "that I am leading a self-indulging, too luxurious life?"

"Not you—not you alone, dearest Ernest; but both of us," I cried, feeling a righteous boldness, I did not dream that I possessed. "Do not the purple and the fine linen of luxury enervate the limbs which they clothe? Is there no starving Lazarus, who may rebuke us hereafter for the sumptuous fare over which we have revelled? I know how generous, how compassionate you are; how ready you are to relieve the sufferings brought before your eye; but how little we witness here! how few opportunities we have of doing good! Ought they not to be sought? May they not be found everywhere in this great thoroughfare of humanity?"

"You shall find my purse as deep as your charities, my lovely monitress," he answered, while his countenance beamed with approbation. "My bounty as boundless as your desires. But, in a great city like this, it is difficult to distinguish between willing degradation and meritorious poverty. You could not go into the squalid dens of want and sin, without soiling the whiteness of your spirit, by familiarity with scenes which I would not have you conscious of passing in the world. There are those who go about as missionaries of good among the lowest dregs of the populace, whom you can employ as agents for your bounty. There are benevolent associations, through which your charities can flow in full and refreshing streams. Remember, I place no limits to your generosities. As to your magnificent plans of establishing asylums and public institutions for the lame, the halt, and the blind, perhaps my single means might not be able to accomplish them,—delightful as it would be to have an angel following in my footsteps, and binding up the wounds of suffering humanity."

He smiled with radiant good-humor at my Quixotic schemes. Then he told me, that since he had been in the city he had given thousands to the charitable associations which spread in great lifegiving veins through every part of the metropolis.

"You think I am living in vain, my Gabriella," he said, rising and walking the length of the splendid apartment and again returning, "because I do not have my allotted daily task to perform; because I do not go forth, like the lawyer, with a green bag under my arm; like the minister, with a sermon in my pocket; or the doctor, with powders and pills. If necessity imposed such tasks on me, I suppose I should perform them with as good a grace as the rest; but surely it would ill become me to enter the lists with my needier brethren, and take the bread from their desiring lips. Every profession is crowded. Even woman is pressing into the throng, and claiming precedence of man, in the great struggle of life. It seems to me, that it is the duty of those on whom fortune has lavished her gifts, to step aside and give room to others, who are less liberally endowed. We may live in luxury; but by so doing, our wealth is scattered among the multitude, the useful arts are encouraged, and much is done for the establishment of that golden mean, which reason and philosophy have so long labored to secure."

As he thus spoke calmly, yet energetically, moving back and forth under the arches of glittering azure, his pale, transparent complexion lighted up glowingly. My eyes followed him with exulting affection. I wondered at the presumption of which I had been guilty. He had been doing good in secret, while I imagined him forgetful of the sacred legacy, left by Christ to the rich. I had wronged him in thought, and I told him so.

"You asked me of what I was thinking," I said, "and you draw my thoughts from me as by magic. I have not told you all. I do not sigh for other society; but I fear you will become weary of mine."

"Do we ever weary of moonlight, or the sweet, fresh air of heaven? No, Gabriella; remain just as you are, ingenuous, confiding, and true, and I desire no other companionship. You so entirely fill my heart, there is no room for more. You never have had, never will have a rival. You have a power over me, such as woman seldom, exercises over man. Love, with most men, is the pastime and gladdener of life; with me it is life itself. A fearful responsibility is resting on you, my own, dear bride; but do not tremble. I do not think it is possible for you to deceive me, for you are truth itself. I begin to think you have changed my nature, and inspired me with trust and confidence in all mankind."

I did not make any professions, any promises, in answer to his avowal; but if ever a fervent prayer rose from the human heart, it ascended from mine, that I might prove worthy of this trust, that I might preserve it unblemished, with a constant reference to the eye that cannot be deceived, and the judgment that cannot err.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

The first misfortune of my married life, came in the person of Margaret Melville. She burst into the boudoir one morning like a young tornado, seizing me in her strong arms, and giving me a shower of kisses, before I had time to recover from my astonishment.

Ernest and myself were seated side by side by the escritoire. He was reading,—I was writing to Edith, little dreaming of the interruption at hand.

"My dear creature," she exclaimed, with one of her inimitable ringing laughs, "how do you do? You didn't think of seeing me, I know you didn't. Where did I come from? I dropped down from the upper regions,—you do not believe that. Well, I came with a party of friends, who wanted me to keep them alive. They are stopping at the Astor House. By the way, my trunks are there,—you may send for them as soon as you please. (Her trunks! she had come for a long visit, then!) There is my bonnet, mantilla, and gloves,—here I am, body and soul,—what a glorious lounge,—good old Cr[oe]sus, what a palace you are in,—I never saw any thing so magnificent! Why, this is worth getting married for! If I ever marry, it shall be to a rich man, and one who will let me do just as I please, too."

Ernest in vain endeavored to conceal his vexation at this unexpected innovation on the elegant quietude and romantic seclusion of our home. His countenance expressed it but too plainly, and Margaret, careless as she was, must have observed it. It did not appear to disconcert her, however. She had not waited for an invitation,—she did not trouble herself about a welcome. She had come for her own amusement, and provided that was secured, she cared not for our gratification.

I can hardly explain my own feelings. I always dreaded coming in contact with her rudeness; there was no sympathy in our natures, and yet I experienced a sensation of relief while listening to her bubbling and effervescent nonsense. My mind had been kept on so high a tone, there was a strain, a tension, of which I was hardly conscious till the bowstring was slackened. Besides, she was associated with the recollections of Grandison Place,—she was a young person of my own sex, and she could talk to me of Mrs. Linwood, and Edith, and the friends of my rural life. So I tried to become reconciled to the visitation, and to do the honors of a hostess with as good a grace as possible.

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

"It never will do," she cried, catching a pair of scissors from my work-box, and twirling them on the ends of her fingers at the imminent risk of their flying into my eyes,—"you must put a stop to this Darby and Joan way of living,—you will be the byword of the fashionable world,—I heard several gentlemen talking about you last night. They said your husband was so exclusive and jealous he would not let the sun look upon you if he could help it,—that he had the house lighted through the roof, so that no one could peep at you through the windows. Oh! I cannot repeat half the ridiculous things they said, but I am sure your ears must have burned from the compliments they paid you, at least those who have had the good-luck to catch a glimpse of your face. They all agreed that Ernest was a frightful ogre, who ought to be put in a boiling cauldron, for immuring you so closely,—I am going to tell him so."

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

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

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

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

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

"Gabriella, would you like to go?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed, but her lips curled with scorn.

Ernest took up a pearl paper-cutter from the table, and bent it, till it broke like glass in his fingers. He did not know what he was doing. Madge only laughed the louder. She enjoyed his anger and my trepidation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXXIV.

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

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

Mr. Harland escorted Meg, who was in exuberant spirits, and as usual attracted the public gaze by her dashing and reckless demeanor. Conspicuous, from her superior height, her large, roving black eyes, and her opera cloak of brilliant cherry color, I felt sheltered from observation in her vicinity, and hoped that Ernest would find I could mingle in public scenes without drawing any peculiar attention. Indeed, I was so absorbed by the graceful and expressive pantomime, the novelty and variety of the scenic decorations, that I thought not where I was, or who I was. To city dwellers, a description of these would be as unnecessary as uninteresting; but perhaps some young country girl, as inexperienced as myself in fashionable amusements, may like to follow my glowing impressions.

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

The stage represented one of those rural fetes, where the peasantry of France gather on the village green, to mingle in the exhilarating dance. An aged couple came forward, hand in hand, in coarse grey overcoats, wooden sabots, and flapped hats, fastened by gray handkerchiefs under their chins. Two tight ropes were stretched parallel to each other, about eight or ten feet above the stage, and extended over the parquette. A light ladder rested against them, on each side. The aged couple tottered to the ladder, and attempted to ascend; but, at the first step, they fell and rolled on the ground.

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

"They deserve to suffer for their folly," answered Ernest, laughing. "Age should not ape the agility of youth. Perhaps they will do better than you anticipate."

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

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

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

Ernest seemed to enjoy my rapture. "I take more pleasure," he said, "watching your vivid emotions, than in witnessing this wonderfully graceful exhibition. What a perfect child of nature you are, Gabriella. You should thank me for keeping you somewhat aloof from the fascinations of the world. It is only in the shade, that the dew remains on the flower."

I do not think one glance of mine had wandered from the stage, save to meet the eye of Ernest. We sat in the second row of boxes, about half-way distant from the stage and the centre. I knew that every seat was crowded, but I did not observe the occupants. Meg, who cared as much about the audience as the performers, kept her opera-glass busy in gazing on those who were remote, and her own bold, magnificent eyes in examining those in her vicinity.

"Gabriella!" she whispered, "do look at that gentleman in the next box, one seat in advance of us. He has been gazing at you for an hour steadily. Do you know him?"

I shook my head, and made a motion, enjoining silence. I did not think Ernest had heard her, and I did not wish his attention directed towards an impertinence of this kind. It would make him angry, and he seemed to have enjoyed the evening.

"Why don't you look?" again whispered Meg. "He may leave the box. He is certainly trying to magnetize you."

Impelled by growing curiosity, I glanced in the direction she indicated, and met the unreceding gaze of a pair of dark, intense eyes, that seemed to burn in their sockets. Their owner was a gentleman, who appeared about forty years of age, of a very striking figure, and features originally handsome, but wearing the unmistakable stamp of dissipation. I blushed at his bold and steadfast scrutiny, and drew involuntarily nearer to Ernest. Ernest observed his undaunted stare, and his brows contracted over his flashing eyes. The gentleman, perceiving this, turned towards the stage, and seemed absorbed in admiration of the graceful and inimitable Ravels.

"Scoundrel!" muttered Ernest, leaning forward so as to interpose a barrier to his insolence.

"Did you speak to me, cousin Ernest?" asked Meg, with affected simplicity.

He made no reply; and as the stranger did not turn again, I became so interested in the performance as to forget his bold ness. During the interlude between the plays, I begged Ernest to get me a glass of water. Meg made the same request of Mr. Harland, and for a short time we were left alone.

The moment the gentlemen had left the box, the stranger rose and stepped into the box behind him, which brought him on a line with us, and close to me, as I was seated next to the partition. I did not look him in the face; but I could not help being conscious of his movements, and of the probing gaze he again fixed on me. I wished I had not asked for the water. I could have borne the faintness and oppression caused by the odor of the gas better than that dark, unshrinking glance. I dreaded the anger of Ernest on his return. I feared he would openly resent an insolence so publicly and perseveringly displayed. We were side by side, with only the low partition of the boxes between us, so near that I felt his burning breath on my cheek,—a breath in which the strong perfume of orris-root could not overcome the fumes of the narcotic weed. I tried to move nearer Meg, but her back was partially turned to me, in the act of conversing with some gentleman who had just entered the box, and she was planted on her seat firm as a marble statue.

The stranger's hand rested on the partition, and a note fell into my lap.

"Conceal this from your husband," said a low, quick voice, scarcely above a whisper, "or his life shall be the forfeit as well as mine."

As he spoke, he lifted his right hand, exhibiting a miniature in its palm, in golden setting. One moment it flashed on my gaze, then vanished, but that glance was enough. I recognized the lovely features of my mother, though blooming with youth, and beaming with hope and joy.

To snatch up the note and hide it in my bosom, was an act as instinctive as the beating of my heart. It was my father, then, from whose scorching gaze I had been shrinking with such unutterable dread and loathing,—the being whom she had once so idolatrously loved, whom in spite of her wrongs she continued to love,—the being who had destroyed her peace, broken her heart, and laid her in a premature grave—the being whom her dying lips commanded me to forgive, whom her prophetic dream warned me to protect from unknown danger. My father! I had imagined him dead, so many years had elapsed since my mother's flight. I had thought of him as a fabulous being. I dreamed not of encountering him, and if I had, I should have felt secure, for how could he recognize me? My father! cold and sick I turned away, shivering with indescribable apprehension. He had destroyed my mother,—he had come to destroy me. That secret note,—that note which I was to conceal, or meet so awful a penalty, seemed to scorch the bosom that throbbed wildly against its folds.

All that I have described occurred in the space of a few moments. Before Ernest returned, the stranger had resumed his seat,—(I cannot, oh, I cannot call him father,)—and there was no apparent cause for my unconquerable emotion. Meg, who was laughing and talking with her companions, had observed nothing. The secret was safe, on which I was told two lives depended. Two,—I might say three, since one was the life of Ernest.

I attempted to take the glass of water, but my hand shook so I could not hold it. I dared not look in the face of Ernest, lest he should read in mine all that had occurred.

"What is the matter?" he asked, anxiously. "Gabriella, has any thing alarmed you during my absence?"

"The odor of the gas sickens me," I answered, evading the question; "if you are willing, I should like to return home."

"You seem strangely affected in crowds," said he, in an undertone, and bending on me a keen, searching glance. "I remember on commencement day you were similarly agitated."

"I do indeed seem destined to suffer on such occasions," I answered, a sharp pang darting through my heart. I read suspicion in his altered countenance. The flower leaves were beginning to wither. "If Miss Melville is willing, I should like to return."

"What is that you say about going home?" cried Meg, turning quickly round. "What in the world is this, Gabriella? You look as if you had seen a ghost!"

"Whatever she has seen, it is probable you have been equally favored, Miss Melville, since you were together," said Ernest, in the same cold undertone. The orchestra was playing a magnificent overture, there was laughter and merriment around us, so the conversation in our box was not over-heard.

"I!" exclaimed Meg. "I have not seen any thing but one sociable looking neighbor. I should not wonder if his eyes had blistered her face, they have been glowing on her so intensely."

As she raised her voice, the stranger turned his head, and again I met them,—those strange, basilisk eyes. They seemed to drink my heart's blood. It is scarcely metaphorical to say so, for every glance left a cold, deadly feeling behind.

"Come, Gabriella," said Ernest; "if Miss Melville wishes it, she can remain with Mr. Harland. I will send back the carriage for them."

"To be sure I wish it," cried Meg. "They say the best part of the amusement is to come. Gabriella has a poor opinion of my nursing, so I will not cast my pearls away. I am glad I have not any nerves, my dear little sensitive plant. It is a terrible thing to be too attractive to venture abroad!"

The latter part of the sentence was uttered in a whisper, while suppressed laughter convulsed her frame.

Ernest did not open his lips as he conducted me from the theatre to the carriage, and not a word was spoken during our homeward ride. The rattling of the pavements was a relief to the cold silence. Instead of occupying the same seat with me, Ernest took the one opposite; and as we passed the street lamps they flashed on his face, and it seemed that of a statue, so cold and impressive it looked. What did he suspect? What had I done to cause this deep displeasure? He knew not of the note which I had concealed, of the words which still hissed in my ears. The bold gaze of the stranger would naturally excite his anger against him, but why should it estrange him from me? I had yet to learn the wiles and the madness of his bosom enemy.

When I took his hand, as he assisted me from the carriage I started, for it was as chill as ice, and the fingers, usually so pliant and gentle in their fold, were inflexible as marble. I thought I should have fallen to the pavement; but exerting all the resolution of which I was mistress, I entered the house, and passed under the dim glitter of the silvery drapery into my own apartment.

I had barely strength to reach the sofa, on which I sunk in a state of utter exhaustion. I feared I was going to faint, and then they would loosen my dress and discover the fatal note.

"Wine!" said I to the chambermaid, who was folding my opera cloak, which I had dropped on the floor; "give me wine. I am faint."

I remembered the red wine which Dr. Harlowe gave me, after my midnight run through the dark woods, and how it infused new life into my sinking frame. Since then I had been afraid to drink it, for the doctor had laughingly assured me, that it had intoxicated, while it sustained. Now, I wanted strength and courage, and it came to me, after swallowing the glowing draught. I lifted my head, and met the cold glance of Ernest without shivering. I dared to speak and ask him the cause of his anger.

"The cause!" repeated he, his eyes kindling with passion. "Who was the bold libertine, before whose unlicensed gaze you blushed and trembled, not with indignation, such as a pure and innocent woman ought to feel; but with the bashful confusion the veteran roue delights to behold? Who was this man, whose presence caused you such overpowering emotion, and who exchanged with you glances of such mysterious meaning? Tell me, for I will know."

Oh that I had dared to answer, "He is my father. Covered with shame and humiliation, I acknowledge my parentage, which makes me so unworthy to bear your unsullied name. My darkened spirit would hide itself behind a cloud, to escape the villain whom nature disowns and reason abhors." But, unknowing the contents of the mysterious note, unknowing the consequences to himself which might result from its disclosure, remembering the injunction of my dying mother, to be to him a guardian angel in the hour of danger,—I could not save myself from blame by revealing the truth. I could not stain my lips with a falsehood.

"I never saw that man before," I replied. "Most husbands would think modest confusion more becoming in a wife, than the indignation which he usually deems it his own prerogative to exhibit. If I have been insulted, methinks you should wreak your vengeance on the offender, instead of me,—the innocent sufferer. It would be more manly."

"Would you have had me make the theatre a scene of strife and bloodshed?" he exclaimed.

"No! neither would I have you bring warring passions into the peaceful bosom of your own home."

"Is this you?" he cried, looking me sternly and sorrowfully in the face. "Is this the gentle and tender Gabriella, who speaks in such a tone of bitterness and scorn?"

"I did not know that I spoke bitterly!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Ernest, you have roused in me a spirit of resistance I tremble to feel! You madden me by your reproaches! You wrong me by your suspicions! I meant to be gentle and forbearing; but the worm will writhe under the foot that grinds it into dust. Alas! how little we know ourselves!"

With anguish that cannot be described, I clasped my hands tightly over my heart, that ached with intolerable pangs. I had lost him,—lost his love,—lost his confidence. Had I seen him in his grave, I could scarcely have felt more utter desolation.

"I told you what I was," he cried, the pale severity of his countenance changing to the most stormy agitation. "I told you that the cloud which hung over my cradle would follow me to the grave; that suspicion and jealousy were the twin-born phantoms of my soul. Why, then, rash and blind, have you committed your happiness into my keeping? You were warned, and yet you hastened to your doom."

"Because I believed that you loved me; because I loved and trusted, with a love and faith more deep and strong than woman ever knew."

"And I have destroyed them. I knew it would be so. I knew that I would prove a faithless guardian to a charge too dear. Gabriella, I am a wretch,—deserving your hatred and indignation. I have insulted your innocence, by suspicions I should blush to admit. Love, too strong for reason, converts me at times into a madman. I do not ask you to forgive me; but if you could conceive of the agonies I endure, you would pity me, were I your direst foe."

Remorse, sorrow, tenderness, and love, all swept over his countenance, and gave pathos to his voice. I rose and sprang to his arms, that opened to receive me, and I clung to his neck, and wept upon his bosom, till it seemed that my life would dissolve itself in tears. Oh! it seemed that I had leaped over a yawning abyss to reach him, that I had found him just as I was losing him for ever. I was once more in the banqueting-house of joy, and "his banner over me was love."

"Never again, my husband, never close your heart against me. I have no other home, no other refuge, no other world, than your arms."

"You have forgiven me too soon, my Gabriella. You should impose upon me some penalty equal to the offence, if such indeed there be. Oh! most willingly would I cut off the hand so tenderly clasped in yours and cast it into the flames, if by so doing I could destroy the fiend who tempts me to suspect fidelity, worthy of eternal trust. You think I give myself up without a struggle to the demon passion, in whose grasp you have seen me writhing; but you know not, dream not, how I wrestle with it in secret, and what prayers I send up to God for deliverance. It seems impossible now that I should ever doubt, ever wrong you again, and yet I dare not promise. Oh! I dare not promise; for when the whirlwind of passion rises, I know not what I do."

Had I not been conscious that I was concealing something from him, that while he was restoring to me his confidence, I was deceiving him, I should have been perfectly happy in this hour of reconciliation. But as he again and again clasped me to his bosom, and lavished upon me the tenderest caresses, I involuntarily shrunk from the pressure, lest he should feel the note, which seemed to flutter, so quick and loud my heart beat against it.

"We are neither of us fit for the fashionable world, my Gabriella," said he; "we have hearts and souls fitted for a purer, holier atmosphere than the one we now breathe. If we had some 'bright little isle of our own,' where we were safe from jarring contact with ruder natures, remote from the social disturbances which interrupt the harmony of life, where we could live for love and God, then, my Gabriella, I would not envy the angels around the throne. No scene like this to-night would ever mar the heaven of our wedded bliss."

Ernest did not know himself. Even in Crusoe's desert isle, if the print of human footsteps were discovered on the sand, and had he flown to the uttermost parts of the earth, the phantom created by his own diseased imagination would have pursued him like the giant form that haunted from pole to pole the unhappy Frankenstein. Man cannot escape from his own passions; and in solitude their waves beat against his bosom, like the eternal dashing of the tide, scarcely perceived amidst the active sounds of day, but roaring and thundering in the deep stillness of the midnight hour.

"We were happy here before Margaret came," I answered; "happy as it was possible for mortals to be. How strange that she should have come unasked, remain unurged, without dreaming of the possibility of her being otherwise than a welcome guest!"

"There should be laws to prevent households from such intrusions," said Ernest, with warmth. "I consider such persons as great offenders against the peace of society as the midnight robber or the lurking assassin. Margaret Melville cares for nothing but her own gratification. A contemptible love of fun and frolic is the ruling passion of her life. How false, how artificial is that system where there is no redress for encroachments of this kind! Were I to act honestly and as I ought, I should say to her at once, 'leave us,—your presence is intolerable,—there is no more affinity between us than between glass and brass.' But what would my mother say? What would the world say? What would you say, my own dear wife, who desire her departure even as I do myself?"

"I should be very much shocked, of course. If she had the least sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling, she would read all this in your countenance and manners. I often fear she will perceive in mine, the repulsion I cannot help experiencing. For your mother's sake I wish to be kind to Margaret."

"Do you know, Gabriella, she once wished me to think of her as a wife? That was before her character was formed, however,—when its wild, untamable elements revelled in the morning freedom of girlhood, and reason and judgment were not expected to exert their restraining influence. Think of such an union, my flower-girl, my Mimosa. Do I deserve quite so severe a punishment?"

"You would have lived in a perpetual fever of jealousy, or a state of open anarchy. There would have been some memorable scenes in your diary, I am certain."

"Jealousy! The idea of being jealous of such a being as Margaret! The 'rhinoceran bear' might inspire the passion as soon. No, Gabriella, I do not believe I could be jealous of another woman in the world, for I cannot conceive of the possibility of my ever loving another; and the intensity of my love creates a trembling fear, that a treasure so inestimable, so unspeakably dear, may be snatched from my arms. It is not so much distrust of you, as myself. I fear the casket is not worthy of the jewel it enshrines."

"Be just to yourself, Ernest, and then you will be just to all mankind."

"The truth is, Gabriella, I have no self-esteem. A celebrated German phrenologist examined my head, and pronounced it decidedly deficient in the swelling organ of self-appreciation."

He took my hand and placed it on his head, amid his soft, luxuriant dark hair, and it certainly met no elevation. I was not skilled in the science of phrenology, and there might be a defect in the formation of his head; but on his noble brow, it seemed to me that "every God had set its seal," and left the impress of his own divinity.

We started, for the steps of Madge were heard rushing up the marble stairs, and the sound of her laugh swept before her, and pressed against the door like a strong gale.

Oh Madge! that any one should ever have thought of you as the wife of Ernest.



CHAPTER XXXV.

It was not till the next morning that I dared to read the contents of the note. It was in the magnificent bathing-room, on whose retirement no one ever intruded, that I perused these pencilled lines, evidently written with a hasty and agitated hand.

"Can it be that I have found a daughter? Yes! in those lovely features I trace the living semblance of my beloved Rosalie. Where is she, my child? Where is your angel mother, whom I have sought sorrowing so many years? They tell me that you are married,—that it is your husband who watches you with such jealous scrutiny. He must not know who I am. I am a reckless, desperate man. It would be dangerous to us both to meet. Guard my secret as you expect to find your grave peaceful, your eternity free from remorse. When can I see you alone? Where can I meet you? I am in danger, distress,—ruin and death are hanging over me,—I must flee from the city; but I must see you, my child, my sweet, my darling Gabriella. I must learn the fate of my lost Rosalie.

"The curtain falls,—I dare not write more. Walk in the —— Park to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, where I will wait your coming. Come alone,—I ask only a few moments. A father pleads with his child! As you hope for an answer to your dying prayers, come, child of my Rosalie,—child of my own sad heart."

Once,—twice,—thrice I read these lines,—the death-warrant of my wedded peace. How could I resist so solemn an appeal, without violating the commands of a dying mother? How could I meet him, without incurring the displeasure of my husband? What possibility was there of my leaving home alone, when Ernest scarcely ever left me; when, after his return, if he chanced to go out, he always asked me how I had passed the time of his absence? How could I preserve outward composure, with such a secret burning in my heart? A sigh, involuntarily breathed,—a tear, forcing its way beneath the quivering lash, would expose me to suspicion and distress. What could I, should I do? I was alone, now; and I yielded momentarily to an agony of apprehension, that almost drove me mad. On one side, a guilty, ruined parent; on the other, a jealous husband, whose anger was to me a consuming fire. No, no; I could never expose myself again to that. I trembled at the recollection of those pale, inflexible features, and that eye of stormy splendor. The lightning bolt was less terrible and scathing. Yet, to turn a deaf ear to a father's prayer; to disregard a mother's injunction; to incur, perhaps, the guilt of parricide; to hazard the judgments of the Almighty;—how awful the alternative!

I sank down on my knees, and laid my head on the marble slab on which I had been seated. I tried to pray; but hysterical sobs choked my words.

"Have pity upon me, O my heavenly Father!" at length I exclaimed, raising my clasped hands to heaven. "Have pity upon me, and direct me in the right path. Give me courage to do right, and leave the result unto Thee. I float on a stormy current, without pilot or helm. I sink beneath the whelming billows. Help, Lord! or I perish!"

Before I rose from my knees, it seemed as if invisible arms surrounded me,—bearing me up, above the dark and troubled waters. I felt as if God would open a way for me to walk in; and I resolved to leave the event in his hands. Had I applied to an earthly counsellor, with wisdom to direct, they might have told me, that one who had been guilty of the crime my father had committed, had forfeited every claim on a daughter's heart. That I had no right to endanger a husband's happiness, or to sacrifice my own peace, in consequence of his rash demand. No instinctive attraction drew me to this mysterious man. Instead of the yearnings of filial affection, I felt for him an unconquerable repugnance. His letter touched me, but his countenance repelled. His bold, unreceding eye;—not thus should a father gaze upon his child.

Upon what apparent trifles the events of our life sometimes depend! At the breakfast table, Madge suddenly asked what day of the month it was.

Then I remembered that it was the day appointed for a meeting of the ladies composing a benevolent association, of which I had been lately made a member. After the conversation with Ernest, in which I had expressed such an anxiety to do good, he had supplied me bountifully with means, so that my purse was literally overflowing. I had met the society once, and had gone alone. The hour of the meeting was ten. What a coincidence! Was Providence opening a way in which my doubting feet should walk? When I mentioned the day of the month, I added,

"Our Society for the Relief of Invalid Seamstresses meets this morning. I had forgotten it, till your question reminded me that this was the day."

"Do not your coffers need replenishing, fair Lady Bountiful?" asked Ernest. "This is an association founded on principles which I revere. If any class of females merit the sympathy and kind offices of the generous sisterhood, it is that, whose services are so ill repaid, and whose lives must be one long drawn sigh of weariness and anxiety. Give, my Gabriella, to your heart's content; and if one pale cheek is colored with the glow of hope, one dim eye lighted with joy, something will be added to the sum of human happiness."

Ernest was unusually kind and tender. He watched me as the fond mother does the child, whom she has perhaps too severely chided. He seemed to wish to atone for the pain he had given, and to assure me by his manner that his confidence was perfectly restored.

"I shall avail myself of your absence," said he, "to pay some of my epistolary debts. They have weighed heavy on my conscience for some time."

"And I," said Madge, "have engaged to spend the day with Miss Haven. You can drop me on the way."

Madge had behaved unusually well during the morning, and did not harass me at the breakfast table, as I feared she would, about the bold stranger at the theatre. Perhaps my pale cheeks spoke too plainly of the sufferings of the evening, and she had a heart after all.

As I went into my room to prepare for going out, my hands trembled so that I could scarcely fasten the ribbons of my bonnet. Every thing seemed to facilitate my filial duty; but the more easy seemed its accomplishment, the more I shrunk from the thought of deceiving Ernest, in this hour of restored tranquillity and abounding love. I loathed the idea of deceiving any one,—but Ernest, my lover, my husband,—how could I beguile his new-born confidence?

He came in, and wrapped me up in my ermine-trimmed cloak, warning me of exposing myself to the morning air, which was of wintry bleakness.

"You must bring back the roses which I have banished from your cheeks," said he, kissing them with a tenderness and gentleness that made my heart ache with anguish. I did not deserve these caresses; and if my purpose were discovered, would they not be the last?

Shuddering, as I asked myself this question, I turned towards him, as if to daguerreotype on my heart every lineament of his striking and expressive face. How beautiful was his countenance this moment, softened by tenderness, so delicately pale, yet so lustrous, like the moonlight night!

"Oh, Ernest!" said I, throwing my arms around him, with a burst of irrepressible emotion, "I am not worthy of the love you bear me, but yet I prize it far more than life. If the hour comes when it is withdrawn from me, I pray Heaven it may be my last."

"It can never be withdrawn, my Gabriella. You may cast it from your bosom, and it may wither, like the flower trampled by the foot of man; but by my own act it never can be destroyed. Nor by yours either, my beloved wife. At this moment I have a trust in you as entire as in heaven itself. I look back with wonder and remorse on the dark delusions to which I have submitted myself. But the spell is broken; the demon laid. Sorrow has had its season; but joy hath come in the morning. Smile, my darling Gabriella, in token of forgiveness and peace."

I tried to smile, but the tears would gather into my eyes.

"Foolish girl!" he cried. A loud laugh rung under the silken arches. Madge stood in the open door, her great black eyes brimming with mirth.

"When you have finished your parting ceremonies," she exclaimed, "I think we had better start. One would think you were going to Kamschatka or Terra del Fuego, instead of Broadway. Oh dear! what a ridiculous thing it is to see people in love with each other, after they are married! Come, Gabriella; you can carry his miniature with you."

As the carriage rolled from the gate, I was so agitated at the thought of the approaching interview I could not speak. Madge rattled away, in her usual light manner; but I did not attempt to answer her. I leaned back in the carriage, revolving the best way of accomplishing my design. After leaving Madge, instead of going to the lady's, at whose house the society met, I ordered the coachman to drive to one of the fashionable stores and leave me.

"Return in an hour," said I, as I left the carriage. "You will find me at Mrs. Brahan's. Drive the horses out to the Battery for exercise, as you usually do."

As I gave these orders, my heart beat so fast I could hardly articulate with distinctness. Yet there was nothing in them to excite suspicion. The horses were high-fed and little used, gay and spirited, and when we shopped or made morning calls, the coachman was in the habit of driving them about, to subdue their fiery speed.

I should make too conspicuous an appearance in the park, in my elegant cloak, trimmed with costly ermine and bonnet shaded with snowy plumes. I would be recognized at once, for the bride of the jealous Ernest was an object of interest and curiosity. To obviate this difficulty, I purchased a large gray shawl, of soft, yielding material, that completely covered my cloak; a thick, green veil, through which my features could not be discerned, and walked with rapid steps through the hurrying crowd that thronged the side-walks towards the —— Park.

It was too early an hour for the usual gathering of children and nurses. Indeed, at this cold, wintry season, the warm nursery was a more comfortable and enticing place.

The park presented a dreary, desolate aspect. No fountain tossed up its silvery waters, falling in rainbows back to earth. The leafless branches of the trees shone coldly in the thin glazing of frostwork and creaked against each other, as the bleak wind whistled through them. Here and there, a ruddy-faced Irish woman, wrapped in a large blanket-shawl, with a coarse straw bonnet blown back from her head, breasted the breeze with a little trotting child, who took half a dozen steps to one of hers, tugging hard at her hand. It was not likely I should meet a fashionable acquaintance at this early hour; and if I did, I was shrouded from recognition.

I had scarcely passed the revolving gate, before I saw a gentleman approaching from the opposite entrance with rapid and decided steps. He was tall and stately, and had that unmistakable air of high-breeding which, being once acquired, can never be entirely lost. As he came nearer, I could distinguish the features of the stranger; features which, seen by daylight, exhibited still more plainly the stamp of recklessness, dissipation, and vice. They had once been handsome, but alas! alas! was this the man who had captivated the hearts of two lovely women, and then broken them? Where was the fascination which had enthralled alike the youthful Rosalie and the impassioned Theresa? Was this, indeed, the once gallant and long beloved St. James?

"You have come," he exclaimed, eagerly grasping my hand and pressing it in his. "I bless you, my daughter,—and may God forever bless you for listening to a father's prayer!"

"I have come," I answered, in low, trembling accents, for indescribable agitation almost choked my utterance,—"but I can not,—dare not linger. It was cruel in you to bind me to secrecy. Had it not been for the mother,—whose dying words"—

"And is she dead,—the wronged,—the angel Rosalie? How vainly I have sought her,—and thee, my cherub little one! My sufferings have avenged her wrongs."

He turned away, and covered his face with his handkerchief. I saw his breast heave with suppressed sobs. It is an awful thing to see a strong man weep,—especially when the tears are wrung by the agonies of remorse. I felt for him the most intense pity,—the most entire forgiveness,—yet I recoiled from his approach,—I shrunk from the touch of his dry and nervous hand. I felt polluted, degraded, by the contact.

"My mother told me, if I ever met you, to give you not only her forgiveness, but her blessing. She blessed you, for the sufferings that weaned her from earth and chastened her spirit for a holier and happier world. She bade me tell you, that in spite of her wrongs she had never ceased to love you. In obedience to her dying will, I have shown you a daughter's duty so far as to meet you here, and learn what I can do for one placed in the awful circumstances in which you declare yourself to be. Speak quickly and briefly, for on every passing moment the whole happiness of my life hangs trembling."

"Only let me see your face for the few moments we are together, that I may carry its remembrance to my grave,—that face so like your mother's."

"What can I do?" I exclaimed, removing the veil as I spoke,—for there was no one near; and I could not refuse a petition so earnest. "Oh, tell me quickly what I can do. What dreadful doom is impending over you?"

"You are beautiful, my child,—very, very beautiful," said he; while his dark, sunken eyes seemed to burn me with the intensity of their gaze.

"Talk not to me of beauty, at a moment like this!" I exclaimed, stamping my foot in the agony of my impatience. "I cannot, will not stay, unless to aid you. Your presence is awful! for it reminds me of my mother's wrongs,—my own clouded birth."

"I deserve this, and far more," he cried, in tones of the most object humility. "Oh, my child, I am brought very low;—I am a lost and ruined man. Maddened by your mother's desertion, I became reckless,—desperate. I fled from the home another had usurped. I became the prey of villains, who robbed me of my fortune at the gaming table. Another, and another step;—lower and lower still I sunk. I cannot tell you the story of my ruin. Enough, I am lost! The sword of the violated law gleams over my head. Every moment it may fall. I dare not remain another day in this city. I dare not stay in my native land. If I do, yonder dismal Tombs will be my life-long abode."

"Fly, then,—fly this moment," I cried. "What madness! to linger in the midst of danger and disgrace!"

"Alas! my daughter, I am penniless. I had laid aside a large sum, sufficient for the emergency; but a wretch robbed me of all, only two nights since. Humiliating as it is, I must turn beggar to my child. Your husband is a Dives; I, the Lazarus, who am perishing at his gate."

"Ask him. He is noble and generous. He will fill your purse with gold, and aid you to escape. Go to him at once. You know not his princely heart."

"Never! On you alone I depend. I will not ask a favor of man, to save my soul from perdition. Girl! have you no power over the wealth that must be rusting in your coffers? Are you not trusted with the key to your household treasures?"

"Do you think I would take his gold clandestinely?" I asked, glowing with indignation, and recoiling from the expression of his eager, burning eye. We were walking slowly during this exciting conversation; and, cold as it was, the moisture gathered on my brow. "Here is a purse, given me for a holier purpose. Take it, and let me go."

"Thank you,—bless you, my child! but this will only relieve present necessity. It will not carry me in safety to distant climes. Bless you! but take it back, take it back. I can only meet my doom!"

"I will go to my husband!" I exclaimed with sudden resolution; "I will tell him all, and he, and he alone shall aid you. I will not wrong him by acting without his knowledge. You have no right to endanger my life-long peace. You have destroyed my mother; must her child too be sacrificed?"

"I see there is but one path of escape," he cried, snatching a pistol from his breast, and turning the muzzle to his heart. "Fool, dolt, idiot that I am! I dreamed of salvation from a daughter's hand, but I have forfeited a father's name, a father's affection. Gabriella, you might save me, but I blame you not. Do not curse me, though I fill a felon's grave;—better that than the dungeon—the scaffold."

"What would you do?" I whispered hoarsely, seizing his arm with spasmodic grasp.

"Die, before I am betrayed."

"I will not betray you; what sum will suffice for your emergency? Name it."

"As many thousands as there are hundreds there," pointing to the purse.

"Good heavens!"

"Gabriella, you must have jewels worth a prince's ransom; you had diamonds last night on your neck and arms that would redeem your father's life. Each gem is but a drop of water in the deep sea of his riches. His uncle was a modern Cr[oe]sus, and he, his sole heir."

"How know you this?" I asked.

"Every one knows it. The rich are the cities on the hill-tops, seen afar off. You hesitate,—you tremble. Keep your diamonds,—but remember they will eat like burning coals into your flesh."

Fierce and deadly passions gleamed from his eye. He clenched the pistol so tight that his nails turned of a purplish blue.

No one was near us, to witness a scene so strange and appalling. The thundering sounds of city life were rolling along the great thoroughfare of the metropolis, now rattling, shrill, and startling, then roaring, swelling, and subsiding again, like the distant surf; but around us, there was silence and space. In the brief moment that we stood face to face, my mind was at work with preternatural activity. I remembered that I had a set of diamonds,—the bridal gift of Mrs. Linwood,—a superb and costly set, which I had left a week previous in the hands of the jeweller, that he might remedy a slight defect in the clasps. Those which I wore at the theatre, and which had attracted his insatiate eye, were the gift of Ernest. He had clasped them around my neck and arms, as he was about to lead me to the altar, and hallowed the offering with a bridegroom's kiss. I could have given my heart's blood sooner than the radiant pledge of wedded faith and love.

I could go to the jewellers,—get possession of the diamonds, and thus redeem my guilty parent from impending ruin. Then, the waves of the Atlantic would roll between us, and I would be spared the humiliation and agony of another scene like this. I told him to follow me at a short distance; that I would get the jewels; that he could receive them from me in the street in the midst of the jostling crowd without observation.

"It is the last time," I cried, "the last time I ever act without my husband's knowledge. I have obeyed my mother, I have fulfilled my duty, at the risk of all my soul holds dear. And now, as you hope to meet hereafter her, who, if angels can sorrow, still mourns over your transgressions, quit the dark path you are now treading, and devote your future life to penitence and prayer. Oh! by my mother's wrongs and woes, and by my own, by the mighty power of God and a Saviour's dying love, I entreat you to repent, forsake your sins, and live, live, forever more."

Tears gushed from my eyes and checked my utterance. Oh! how sad, how dreadful, to address a father thus.

"Gabriella!" he exclaimed, "you are an angel. Pray for me, pray for me, thou pure and holy being, and forgive the sins that you say are not beyond the reach of God's mercy, I dare not, not here,—yet for one dear embrace, my child, I would willingly meet the tortures of the prison-house and the scaffold."

I recoiled with horror at the suggestion. I would not have had his arms around me for worlds. I could not call him father. I pitied,—wept for him; but I shrunk with loathing from his presence. Dropping my veil over my face, I turned hastily, gained the street, pressed on through the moving mass without looking to the right or left, till I reached the shop where my jewels were deposited,—took them without waiting for explanation or inquiry, hurried back till I met St. James, slipped the casket into his eager hand, and pressed on without uttering a syllable. Never shall I forget the expression of his countenance as he received the casket. The fierce, wild, exulting flash of his dark sunken eye, whose reddish blackness seemed suddenly to ignite and burn like heated iron. There was something demoniac in its glare, and it haunted me in my dreams long, long afterwards.

I did not look back, but hurried on, rejoicing that rapidity of motion was too customary in Broadway to attract attention. Before I arrived at the place of meeting, I wished to divest myself of the shawl which I had used as a disguise; and it was no difficult matter, where poverty is met in all its forms of wretchedness and woe.

"Take this, my good woman," said I, throwing the soft gray covering over the shoulders of a thin, shivering, haggard looking female, on whose face chill penury was written in withering lines. "You are cold and suffering."

"Bless your sweet face. God Almighty bless you!" was wafted to my ears, in tremulous accents,—for I did not stop to meet her look of wonder, gratitude, and ecstasy. I did not deserve her blessing; but the garment sheltered her meagre frame, and she went on her way rejoicing.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

When I entered Mrs. Brahan's drawing-room, I was in a kind of somnambulism,—moving, walking, seeing, yet hardly conscious of what I was doing, or what was passing around me. She was the president of the association, and a very charming woman.

"We feared we were not going to see you this morning," she said, glancing at a French clock, which showed the lateness of the hour; "but we esteem it a privilege to have you with us, even for a short time. We know," she added, with a smile, "what a sacrifice we impose on Mr. Linwood, when we deprive him of your society."

"Yes!" cried a sprightly young lady, with whom I was slightly acquainted, "we all consider it an event, when we can catch a glimpse of Mrs. Linwood. Her appearance at the theatre last night created as great a sensation as would a new constellation in the zodiac."

These allusions to my husband's exclusive devotion brought the color to my cheeks, and the soft, warm air of the room stole soothingly round me. I tried to rouse myself to a consciousness of the present, and apologized for my delay with more ease and composure than I expected.

When the treasurer received the usual funds, I was obliged to throw myself on her leniency.

"I have disposed of my purse since I left home," said I, with a guilty blush, "but I will double my contribution at the next meeting."

"It is no matter," was the reply. "You have already met your responsibilities,—far more than met them,—your reputation for benevolence is already too well established for us to doubt that your will is equal to your power."

Whenever I went into society, I realized the distinction of being the wife of the rich and exclusive Ernest Linwood, the mistress of the oriental palace, as Mrs. Brahan called our dwelling-place. I always found myself flattered and caressed, and perhaps something was owing to personal attraction. I never presumed on the distinction awarded me; never made myself or mine the subjects of conversation, or sought to engross the attention of others. I had always remembered the obscurity of my early life, the cloud upon my birth, not abjectly, but proudly. I was too proud to arrogate to myself any credit for the adventitious circumstances which had raised me above the level of others,—too proud of the love that had given the elevation, to exalt myself as worthy of it.

"I think you must be the happiest being in the world, Mrs. Linwood," said the sprightly young lady, who had taken a seat by my side, and who had the brightest, most sparkling countenance I ever saw. "You live in such a beautiful, beautiful place, with such an elegant husband, too! What a life of enchantment yours must be! Do you know you are the envy of all the young ladies of the city?"

"I hope not," I answered, trying to respond in the same sportive strain; and every one knows, that when the heart is oppressed by secret anxiety, it is easier to be gay than cheerful. "I hope not; as I might be in danger of being exhaled by some subtle perfume. I have heard of the art of poisoning being brought to such perfection, that it can be communicated by a flower or a ring."

"It must be a very fascinating study," she said, laughingly. "I intend to take lessons, though I think throwing vitriol in the face and marring its beauty, is the most effectual way of removing a rival."

"I thought you were discussing the wants and miseries of the sewing sisterhood," said Mrs. Brahan, coming near us. "What started so horrible a theme?"

"Mr. Linwood's perfections," said the young lady, with a gay smile.

"He has one great fault," observed Mrs. Brahan; "he keeps you too close a prisoner, my dear. I fear he is very selfish. Tell him so from me; for he must not expect to monopolize a jewel formed to adorn and beautify the world."

She spoke sportively, benignantly, without knowing the deep truth of her words. She knew that my husband sought retirement; that I seldom went abroad without him. But she knew not, dreamed not, of the strength of the master-passion that governed his actions.

Gradually the company dispersed. As I came so late, I remained a little behind the rest, attracted by a painting in the back parlor. I suppose I inherited from my father a love of the fine arts; for I never could pass a statue or a picture without pausing to gaze upon it.

This represented a rocky battlement, rising in the midst of the deep blue sea. The silvery glimmer of moonlight shone on the rippling waves; moonlight breaking through dark clouds,—producing the most dazzling contrast of light and shade. A large vessel, in full sail, glided along in the gloom of the shadows; a little skiff floated on the white-crested, sparkling, shining tide. The flag of our country waved from the rocky tower. I seemed gazing on a familiar scene. Those wave washed battlements; that floating banner; the figures of soldiers marching on the ramparts, with folded arms and measured tread,—all appeared like the embodiment of a dream.

"What does this represent?" I asked.

"Fortress Monroe, on Chesapeake Bay."

"I thought so. Who was the artist?"

"I think his name was St. James. It is on the picture, near the frame. Yes,—Henry Gabriel St. James. What a beautiful name! Poor fellow!—I believe he had a sad fate! Mr. Brahan could tell you something of his history. He purchased this house of him seventeen years ago. What is the matter, Mrs. Linwood?"

I sank on the nearest seat, incapable of supporting myself. I was in the house where I was born,—where my mother passed the brief period of her wedded happiness; whence she was driven, a wronged, despairing woman, with me, an unconscious infant, in her arms. It was my father's glowing sketch on which I was gazing,—that father whom I had so recently met,—a criminal, evading the demands of justice; a man who had lost all his original brightness,—a being of sin and misery.

Mrs. Brahan rang for water; but I did not faint.

"I have taken a long walk this morning," I said, "and your rooms are warm. I feel better, now. And this house belonged to the artist? I feel interested in his story."

"I wish Mr. Brahan were here; but I will tell you all I recollect. It was a long time ago; and what we hear from others of individuals in whom we have no personal interest, is soon forgotten. Do you really feel better? Well, I believe St. James, the artist, was a highly accomplished, gifted man. He was married to a beautiful young wife, and I think had one child. Of course he was supremely happy. It seems he was called away from home very suddenly, was gone a few months, and when he returned, he found his wife and child fled, and a stranger claiming her name and place. I never heard this mystery explained; but it is said, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, while he sought by every means to recover his lost treasure, but in vain. His reason at one time forsook him, and his health declined. At length, unable to remain where every thing reminded him of his departed happiness, he resolved to leave the country and go to foreign climes. Mr. Brahan, who wished to purchase at that time, was pleased with the house,—bought it, and brought me here, a bride. He has altered and improved it a great deal, but many things remain just as they were. You seem interested. There is something mysterious and romantic connected with it. Oh! here is Mr. Brahan himself; he can relate it far better than I can."

After the usual courtesies of meeting, she resumed the subject, and told her husband how much interested I was in the history of the unfortunate artist.

"Ah yes!" cried he; "poor fellow!—he was sore beset. Two women claimed him as wives,—and he lost both. I never heard a clear account of this part of his life; for when I knew him, he was just emerging from insanity, and it was supposed his mind was still clouded. He was very reserved on the subject of his personal misfortunes. I only know it was the loss of the wife whom he acknowledged that unsettled his reason. He was a magnificent looking fellow,—full of genius and feeling. He told me he was going to Italy,—and very likely he died of a broken heart, beneath its sunny and genial skies. He was a fine artist. That picture has inspiration in it. Look at the reflection of the moon in the water. How tremulous it is! You can almost see the silver rippling beneath that gliding boat. He was a man of genius. There is no doubt he was."

"I should like to show Mrs. Linwood the picture which you found in the closet of his studio," said Mrs. Brahan. "Do you know, I think there is a resemblance to herself?"

"So there is," exclaimed Mr. Brahan, as if making a sudden discovery. "Her face has haunted me since I first beheld her, and I have just discovered where I have seen its semblance. If you will walk up stairs, I will show it to you."

Almost mechanically I followed up the winding stairs, so often pressed by the feet now mouldering side by side beneath the dark coffin lid, into the room where my now degraded parent gave form and coloring to the dreams of imagination, or the shadows of memory. The walls were arching, and lighted from above. Mr. Brahan had converted it into a library, and it was literally lined with books on every side but one. Suspended on that, in a massy gilt frame, was a sketch which arrested my gaze, and it had no power to wander. The head alone was finished,—but such a head! I recognized at once my mother's features; not as I had seen them faded by sorrow, but in the soft radiance of love and happiness. They did not wear the rosy brightness of the miniature I had seen in my father's hand, which was probably taken immediately after her marriage. This picture represented her as my imagination pictured her after my birth, when the tender anxieties of the mother softened and subdued the splendor of her girlish beauty; those eyes,—those unforgotten eyes, with their long, curling lashes, and expression of heavenly sweetness,—how they seemed to bend on me,—the child she had so much loved! I longed to kneel before it, to appeal to it, by every holy and endearing epithet,—to reach the cold, unconscious canvas, and cover it with my kisses and my tears. But I could only gaze and gaze, and the strong spell that bound me was mistaken for the ecstasy of admiration, such as genius only can awaken.

"There is a wonderful resemblance," said Mr. Brahan, breaking the silence. "I shall feel great pride henceforth in saying, I have an admirable likeness of Mrs. Linwood."

"I ought to feel greatly flattered," I answered with a quick drawn breath; "it certainly is very lovely."

"It has the loveliest expression I ever saw in woman's countenance," observed Mr. Brahan. "Perhaps, after making such a remark, I ought not to say, that in that chiefly lies its resemblance to yourself, but it is emphatically so."

"She must be too much accustomed to compliments to mind yours, my dear," said Mrs. Brahan. "I think Mrs. Linwood has the advantage of the picture, for she has the bloom and light of life. No painting can supply these."

"There is something in the perfect repose of a picture," said I, withdrawing my eyes from my mother's seraphic countenance; "something in its serene, unchanging beauty, that is a type of immortality, of the divine rest of the soul. Life is restless, and grows tremulous as we gaze."

"O that that picture were mine!" I unconsciously uttered, as I turned to take a last look on leaving the apartment.

"I do not know that it is mine to give," said Mr. Brahan, "as I found it here after purchasing the house. The one below was presented me by St. James himself. If, however, you will allow me to send it to Mr. Linwood, I really think he has the best right to it, on account of its remarkable resemblance to yourself."

"Oh no, indeed," I exclaimed; "I did not mean, did not think of such a thing. It was a childish way of expressing my admiration of the painting. If you will give me the privilege of sometimes calling to look at it, I shall be greatly indebted."

I hurried down stairs, fearful of committing myself in some way, so as to betray the secret of my birth.

"I wish you would come and see us often, Mrs. Linwood," said Mrs. Brahan, as I bade her adieu. "We are not very fashionable; but if I read your character aright, you will not dislike us on that account. A young person, who is almost a stranger in a great city like this, sometimes feels the want of an older friend. Let me be that friend."

"Thank you, dear madam," I answered, returning the cordial pressure of her hand; "you do not know how deeply I appreciate your proffered friendship, or how happy I shall be to cultivate it."

With many kind and polite expressions, they both accompanied me to the door, and I left them with the conviction that wedded happiness might be perfect after the experience of seventeen years.

When alone in the carriage, I tried to compose my agitated and excited mind. So much had been crowded into the space of a few hours, that it seemed as if days must have passed since I left home. I tried to reconcile what I had heard with what I had seen of my father; but I could not identify the magnificent artist, the man of genius and of feeling, with the degenerate being from whom I had recoiled one hour ago. Could a long career of guilt and shame thus deface and obliterate that divine and godlike image, in which man was formed? He must have loved my mother. Desperation for her loss had plunged him into the wildest excesses of dissipation. From my soul I pitied him. I would never cease to pray for him, never regret what I had done to save him from ruin, even if my own happiness were wrecked by the act. I had tried to do what was right, and God, who seeth the heart, would forgive me, if wrong was the result.