And so the cloud passed by,—and Ernest was, if possible, more tender and devoted, and I tried to cast off the prophetic sadness that would at times steal over the brightness of the future. I was literally giving up all for him. I no longer derived pleasure from the society of Mr. Regulus. I dreaded the sportive sallies of Dr. Harlowe. I looked forward with terror to the return of Richard Clyde. I grew nervous and restless. The color would come and go in my face, like the flashes of the aurora borealis, and my heart would palpitate suddenly and painfully, as if some unknown evil were impending. Did I now say, as I did a few months after my marriage, that I preferred the stormy elements in which I moved, to the usual calm of domestic life? Did I exult, as the billows swelled beneath me and bore me up on their foaming crests, in the power of raising the whirlwind and the tempest? No; I sighed for rest,—for still waters and tranquil skies.

It is strange, that a subject which has entirely escaped the mind, when associations naturally recall it, will sometimes return and haunt it, when nothing seems favorable for its reception.

During my agitated interview with my unhappy father, I had forgotten Theresa La Fontaine, and the boy whose birthright I had unconsciously usurped. Mr. Brahan, in speaking of St. James and his two wives, said they had both disappeared in a mysterious manner. That boy, if living, was my brother, my half-brother, the legitimate inheritor of my name,—a name, alas! he might well blush to bear. If living, where was he, and who was he? Was he the heir of his father's vices, and was he conscious of his ignominious career? These questions constantly recurred, now there was no oracle near to answer. Once, and only once, I mentioned them to Mrs. Linwood.

"You had better not attempt to lift the veil which covers the past," she answered, in her most decided manner. "Think of the suffering, not to say disgrace, attached to the discovery of your father,—and let this brother be to you as though he had never been. Tempt not Providence, by indulging one wish on the subject, which might lead to shame and sorrow. Ernest has acted magnanimously with regard to the circumstances, which must have been galling beyond expression to one of his proud and sensitive nature. And I, Gabriella,—though out of delicacy to you,—I have forborne any allusion to the events of the last winter, have suffered most deeply and acutely on their account. I have suffered for myself, as well as my son. If there is any thing in this world to be prized next to a blameless conscience, it is an unspotted name. Well is it for you, that your own is covered with one, which from generation to generation has been pure and honorable. Well is it for you, that your husband's love is stronger than his pride, or he might reproach you for a father's ignominy. Remember this, when you feel that you have wrongs to forgive. And as you value your own happiness and ours, never, my child, seek to discover a brother, whom you would probably blush to acknowledge, and my son be compelled to disown."

She spoke with dignity and emphasis, while the pride of a virtuous and honored ancestry, though subdued by Christian grace, darkened her eyes and glowed on her usually colorless cheek. I realized then all her forbearance and delicacy. I understood what a deep wound her family pride must have received, and how bitterly she must have regretted a union, which exposed her son to contact with degradation and crime.

"I would not have spoken as I have, my daughter," she added, in a softened tone, "but with your limited knowledge of the world, you cannot understand the importance attached to unblemished associations. And never mention the subject to Ernest, if you would not revive memories that had better slumber for ever."

She immediately resumed her kind and gracious manner, but I never forgot the lesson she had given. My proud spirit needed no second warning. Never had I felt so crushed, so humiliated by the remembrance of my father's crimes. That he was my father I had never dared to doubt. Even Ernest relinquished the hope he had cherished, as time passed on, and no letter from Mr. Brahan threw any new light on the dark relationship; though removed from the vicinity of the dismal Tombs, the dark, gigantic walls cast their lengthening shadow over the fresh green fields and blossoming meadows, and dimmed the glory of the landscape.

The shadow of the Tombs met the shadow in my heart, and together they produced a chill atmosphere. I sighed for that perfect love which casteth out fear; that free, joyous intercourse of thought and feeling, born of undoubting confidence.

Could I live over again the first year of my wedded life, with the experience that now enlightens me, I would pursue a very different course of action. A passion so wild and strong as that which darkened my domestic happiness, should be resisted with the energy of reason, instead of being indulged with the weakness of fear. Every sacrifice made to appease its violence only paved the way for a greater. Every act of my life had reference to this one master-passion. I scarcely ever spoke without watching the countenance of Ernest to see the effect of my words. If it was overcast or saddened, I feared I had given utterance to an improper sentiment, and then I blushed in silence. Very unfortunate was it for him, that I thus fed and strengthened the serpent that should have been strangled in the cradle of our love; and his mother unconsciously did the same. She believed him afflicted by a hereditary malady which should inspire pity, and be treated with gentleness rather than resistance. Edith, too,—if a cloud passed over his brow, she exerted every winning and endearing sisterly art to chase the gloom.

The history of man for six thousand years shows, that in the exercise of unlimited power he becomes a despot. Kingly annals confirm the truth of this, and domestic records proclaim it with a thundering tongue. There must be a restraining influence on human passion, or its turbulent waves swell higher and higher, till they sweep over the landmarks of reason, honor and love. The mighty hand of God is alone powerful enough to curb the raging billows. He alone can say, "peace, be still." But he has ministers on earth appointed to do his pleasure, and if they fulfil their task He may not be compelled to reveal himself in flaming fire as the God of retributive justice.

I know that Ernest loved me, with all his heart, soul, and strength; but mingled with this deep, strong love, there was the alloy of selfishness,—the iron of a despotic will. There was the jealousy of power, as well as the jealousy of love, unconsciously exercised and acquiring by indulgence a growing strength.

My happiness was the first desire of his heart, the first aim of his life; but I must be made happy in his way, and by his means. His hand, fair, soft, and delicate as a woman's,—that hand, with its gentle, warm, heart-thrilling pressure, was nevertheless the hand of Procrustes; and though he covered the iron bed with the flowers of love, the spirit sometimes writhed under the coercion it endured.

"You are not well," said Dr. Harlowe, as we met him during an evening walk. "I do not like that fluctuating color, or that quick, irregular breathing."

Ernest started as if he had heard my death-warrant; and, taking my hand, he began to count my quickly throbbing pulse.

"That will never do," said the doctor, smiling. "Her pulse will beat three times as fast under your fingers as mine, if you have been married nearly a year. It is not a good pulse. You had better take care of her."

"He takes a great deal too much care of me, doctor," I cried. "Do not make him think I am an invalid, or he will make a complete hothouse plant of me."

"Who ever saw an invalid with such a color as that?" asked Ernest.

"Too bright—too mutable," answered the doctor, shaking his head. "She is right. You keep her too close. Let her run wild, like any other country girl. Let her rise early and go out into the barnyard, see the cows milked, inhale their odorous breathings, wander in the fields among the new-mown hay, let her rake it into mounds and throw herself on the fragrant heaps, as I have seen her do when a little school-girl. Let her do just as she pleases, go where she pleases, stay as long as she pleases, in the open air and free sunshine; and mark my words, she will wear on her cheeks the steady bloom of the milkmaid, instead of the flitting rosiness of the sunset cloud."

"I am not conscious of imposing so much restraint on her actions as your words imply," said Ernest, a flush of displeasure passing over his pale and anxious countenance.

"Make her take a ride on horseback every morning and evening," continued Dr. Harlowe, with perfect coolness, without taking any notice of the interruption. "Best exercise in the world. Fine rides for equestrians through the green woods around here. If that does not set her right, carry her to the roaring Falls of Niagara, or the snowy hills of New Hampshire, or the Catskill Mountains, or the Blue Ridge. I cannot let the flower of the village droop and fade."

As he finished the sentence, the merry tones of his voice became grave and subdued. He spoke as one having the authority of science and experience, as well as the privilege of affection. I looked down to hide the moisture that glistened in my eyes.

"How would you like to travel as the doctor has suggested, Gabriella?" asked Ernest, who seemed much moved by the doctor's remarks. "You know I would go to"—

"Nova Zembla, if she wished it," interrupted the doctor, "but that is too far and too cold. Begin with a shorter journey. I wish I could accompany you, but I cannot plead as an excuse my wife's delicacy of constitution. Her health is as uniform as her temper; and even if life and death were at stake, she would not leave her housekeeping in other hands. Neither would she close her doors and turn her locks, lest moth and rust should corrupt, and thieves break in and steal. But pardon me. I have given you no opportunity to answer your husband's question."

"I shall only feel too happy to avail myself of his unnecessary fears with regard to my health," I answered. "It will be a charming way of passing the summer, if Mrs. Linwood and Edith will consent."

Dr. Harlowe accompanied us home, and nothing was talked of but the intended journey. The solicitude of Ernest was painfully roused, and he seemed ready to move heaven and earth to facilitate our departure.

"I am sorry to close Grandison Place in the summer season," said Mrs. Linwood; "it looks so inhospitable. Besides, I have many friends who anticipate passing the sultry season here."

"Let them travel with you, if they wish," said the doctor bluntly. "That is no reason why you should stay at home."

"Poor Madge!" cried Edith, who was delighted with the arrangement the doctor had suggested. "She will be so disappointed."

"Let her come," said Dr. Harlowe. "I will take charge of the wild-cat, and if I find her too mighty for me, I will get Mr. Regulus to assist me in keeping her in order. Let her come, by all means."

"Supposing we write and ask her to accompany us," said Mrs. Linwood. "Her exuberant spirits will be subdued by the exercise of travelling, and she may prove a most exhilarating companion."

"What, four ladies to one gentleman!" exclaimed Edith. "Poor Ernest! when he will have thoughts and eyes but for one!"

"I would sooner travel with the Falls of Niagara, or the boiling springs of Geyser," cried Ernest, with an instinctive shudder. "We should have to take a carpenter, a glazier, an upholsterer, and a seamstress, to repair the ruins she would strew in our path."

"If Richard Clyde were about to return a little earlier in the season," said the doctor, looking at Edith, "he would be a delightful acquisition to your party. He would divide with your brother the heavy responsibility of being the guardian of so many household treasures."

"Let us start as early as possible," exclaimed Ernest. The name of Richard Clyde was to his impatient, jealous spirit, as is the rowel to the fiery steed.

"And what will become of all our beautiful flowers, and our rich, ripening fruit?" I asked. "Must they waste their sweetness and value on the unappreciating air?"

"I think we must make Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Regulus the guardians and participators of both," said Mrs. Linwood.

"Give him the flowers, and leave the fruit to me," cried Dr. Harlowe, emphatically.

"That the sick, the poor, and the afflicted may be benefited by the act," replied Mrs. Linwood. "Let it be so, Doctor,—and may many a blessing which has once been mine, reward your just and generous distribution of the abounding riches of Grandison Place."

I left one sacred charge with the preceptor of my childhood.

"Let not the flowers and shrubbery around my mother's grave, and the grave of Peggy, wilt and die for want of care."

"They shall not. They shall be tenderly and carefully nurtured."

"And if Margaret comes during our absence, be kind and attentive to her, for my sake, Mr. Regulus."

"I will! I will! and for her own too. The wild girl has a heart, I believe she has; a good and honest heart."

"You discovered it during your homeward journey from New York. I thought you would," said I, pleased to see a flush light up the student's olive cheek. I thought of the sensible Benedict and the wild Beatrice, and the drama of other lives passed before the eye of imagination.

Gloomy must the walls of Grandison Place appear during the absence of its inmates,—that city set upon a hill that could not be hid, whose illuminated windows glittered on the vale below with beacon splendor, and discoursed of genial hospitality and kindly charity to the surrounding shadows. Sadly must the evening gale sigh through the noble oaks, whose branches met over the winding avenue, and lonely the elm-tree wave its hundred arms above the unoccupied seat,—that seat, beneath whose breezy shade I had first beheld the pale, impassioned, and haunting face of Ernest Linwood.



CHAPTER XLIV.

It is not my intention to describe our journey; and I fear it will indeed be an act of supererogation to attempt to give an idea of those majestic Falls, whose grandeur and whose glory have so long been the theme of the painter's pencil and the poet's lyre. Never shall I forget the moment when my spirit plunged into the roar and the foam, the thunders and the rainbows of Niagara. I paused involuntarily a hundred paces from the brink of the cataract. I was about to realize one of the magnificent dreams of my youthful imagination. I hesitated and trembled. I felt something of the trepidation, the blissful tremor that agitated my whole being when Ernest asked me into the moonlight garden at Cambridge, and I thought he was going to tell me that he loved me. The emotions I was about to experience would never come again, and I knew when once past could never be anticipated as now, with indescribable awe. I felt something as Moses did when he stood in the hollow of the rock, as the glory of the Lord was about to pass by. And surely no grander exhibition of God's glory ever burst on mortal eye, than this mighty volume of water, rushing, roaring, plunging, boiling, foaming, tossing its foam like snow into the face of heaven, throwing up rainbow after rainbow from unfathomable abysses, then sinking gradually into a sluggish calm, as if exhausted by the stupendous efforts it had made.

Clinging to the arm of Ernest, I drew nearer and nearer, till all personal fear was absorbed in a sense of overpowering magnificence. I was a part of that glorious cataract; I participated in the mighty struggle; I panted with the throes of the pure, dark, tremendous element, vassal at once and conqueror of man; triumphed in the gorgeous arcs-en-ciel that rested like angels of the Lord above the mist and the foam and the thunders of watery strife, and reposed languidly with the subsiding waves that slept like weary warriors after the din and strife of battle, the frown of contention lingering on their brows, and the smile of disdain still curling their lips.

Oh, how poor, how weak seemed the conflict of human passion in the presence of this sublime, this wondrous spectacle! I could not speak,—I could scarcely breathe,—I was borne down, overpowered, almost annihilated. My knees bent, my hands involuntarily clasped themselves over the arm of Ernest, and in this attitude of intense adoration I looked up and whispered, "God,—eternity."

"Enthusiast!" exclaimed he; but his countenance was luminous with the light that glowed on mine. He put his arm around me, but did not attempt to raise me. Edith and her mother were near, in company with a friend who had been our fellow-traveller from New England, and who had extended his journey beyond its prescribed limits for the sake of being our companion. I looked towards Edith with tremulous interest. As she stood leaning on her crutches, her garments fluttering in the breeze, I almost expected to see her borne from us like down upon the wind, and floating on the bosom of that mighty current.

I said I did not mean to attempt a description of scenes which have baffled the genius and eloquence of man.

"Now I am content to die!" said an ancient traveller, when the colossal shadow of the Egyptian pyramids first fell on his weary frame. But what are those huge, unmoving monuments of man's ambition, compared to this grandest of creation's mysteries, whose deep and thundering voice is repeating, day after day and night after night,—"forever and ever," and whose majestic motion, rushing onward, plunging downward, never pausing, never resting, is emblematic of the sublime march of Deity, from everlasting to everlasting,—from eternity to eternity?

Shall I ever forget the moment when I stood on Termination Rock, beyond which no mortal foot has ever penetrated? I stood in a shroud of gray mist, wrapping me on every side,—above, below, around. I shuddered, as if the hollow, reverberating murmurs that filled my ears were the knell of the departed sun. That cold, gray mist; it penetrated the depths of my spirit; it drenched, drowned it, filled it with vague, ghost-like images of dread and horror. I cast one glance behind, and saw a gleam of heaven's sunny blue, one bright dazzling gleam flashing between the rugged rock and the rushing waters. It was as if the veil of the temple of nature were rent, and the glory of God shone through the fissure.

"Let us return," said I to Ernest. "I feel as if I had passed through the valley of the shadow of death. Is it not sacrilegious to penetrate so deeply into the mysteries of nature?"

"O Gabriella!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing through the shrouding mist like burning stars, "how I wish you felt with me! Were it possible to build a home on this shelving rock, I would willingly dwell here forever, surrounded by this veiling mist. With you thus clasped in my arms, I could be happy, in darkness and clouds, in solitude and dreariness, anywhere, everywhere,—with the conviction that you loved me, and that you looked for happiness alone to me."

"As this moment," I answered, drawing more closely to him, "I fear as if I would rather stay here and die, than return to the world and mingle in its jarring elements. I would far rather, Ernest, make my winding-sheet of those cold, unfathomable waters, than live to feel again the anguish of being doubted by you."

"That is all past, my Gabriella,—all past. My nature is renewed and purified. I feel within me new-born strength and power of resistance. By the God of yon roaring cataract—"

"No,—no, Ernest, do not promise,—I dare not hear you, we are so weak, and temptations are so strong."

"Do you distrust yourself, or me?"

"Both, Ernest. I never, never felt how poor and vain and frail we are, till I stood, as now, in the presence of the power of the Almighty."

His countenance changed instantaneously. "To what temptations do you allude?" he asked. "I can imagine none that could shake my fidelity to you. My constancy is as firm as this rock. Those rushing waves could not move it. Why do you check a vow which I dare to make in the very face of Omnipotence?"

"I doubt not your faith or constancy, most beloved Ernest; I doubt not my own. You know what I do fear,—misconstruction and suspicion. But let us not speak, let us not think of the past. Let us look forward to the future, with true and earnest spirits, praying God to help us in weakness and error. Only think, Ernest, we have that within us more mighty than that descending flood. These souls of ours will still live in immortal youth, when that whelming tide ceases to roll, when the firmament shrivels like a burning scroll. I never realized it so fully, so grandly, as now. I shall carry from this rock something I did not bring. I have received a baptism standing here, purer than fire, gentle as dew, yet deep and pervading as ocean. I cannot describe what I mean, but I feel it. Before I came, it seemed as if a great wall of adamant rose between me and heaven; now there is nothing but this veil of mist."

As we turned to leave this region of blinding spray and mysterious shadows, Ernest repeated, in his most melodious accents, a passage from Schiller's magnificent poem of the diver.

"And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin upsoars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea, that is laboring the birth of a sea."

Never did I experience a more exultant emotion than when we emerged into the clear air and glorious sunshine,—when I felt the soft, rich, green grass beneath, and the blue illimitable heavens smiling above. I had come out of darkness into marvellous light. I was drenched with light as I had previously been by the cold, gray mist. I remembered another verse of the immortal poem I had learned from the lips of Ernest:—

"Happy they, whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given; May the horror below never more find a voice, Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of heaven. Never more, never more may he lift from the sight The veil which is woven with terror and night."



CHAPTER XLV.

Amid the rainbows of the cataract, Edith's heart caught the first glowing tinge of romance.

We were wandering along the path that zones the beautiful island, whose name, unpoetic as it is, recalls one of the brilliant constellations of the zodiac; and Edith had seated herself on a rustic bench, under the massy dome of a spreading beech, and, taking off her bonnet, suffered her hair to float according to its own wild will on the rising breeze.

She did not observe a young man at a little distance, leaning back against an aged birch, on whose silvery bark the dark outlines of his figure were finely daguerreotyped. He was the beau ideal of an artist, with his long brown hair carelessly pushed back from his white temples, his portfolio in his left hand, his pencil in his right, and his dark, restless eyes glancing round him with the fervor of enthusiasm, while they beamed with the inspiration of genius. He was evidently sketching the scene, which with bold, rapid lines he was transferring to the paper. All at once his gaze was fixed on Edith, and he seemed spellbound. I did not wonder,—for a lovelier, more ethereal object never arrested the glance of admiration. Again his pencil moved, and I knew he was attempting to delineate her features. I was fearful lest she should move and dissolve the charm; but she sat as still as the tree, whose gray trunk formed an artistic background to her slight figure.

As soon as Ernest perceived the occupation of the young artist, he made a motion towards Edith, but I laid my hand on his arm.

"Do not," I said; "she will make such a beautiful picture."

"I do not like that a stranger should take so great a liberty," he replied, in an accent of displeasure.

"Forgive the artist," I pleaded, "for the sake of the temptation."

The young man, perceiving that he was observed, blushed with the most ingenuous modesty, took up his hat that was lying on the grass, put his paper and pencil in his portfolio, and walked away into the wilderness of stately and majestic trees, that rose dome within dome, pillar within pillar, like a grand cathedral. We followed slowly in the beaten path, through the dark green maples, the bright-leaved luxuriant beech trees, and the quivering aspens, whose trembling leaves seem instinct with human sensibility. And all the time we wandered through the magnificent aisles of the island, the deep roar of the cataract, like the symphony of a great organ, rolled solemnly through the leafy solitude, and mingled with the rustling of the forest boughs.

In the evening the young artist sought an introduction to our party. His name was Julian, and had the advantage of romantic association. I was glad that Ernest gave him a cordial reception, for I was extremely prepossessed in his favor. Even the wild idea that he might be my unknown brother, had entered my mind. I remembered Mrs. Linwood's advice too well to express it. I even tried to banish it, as absurd and irrational; but it would cling to me,—and gave an interest to the young stranger which, though I dared not manifest, I could not help feeling. Fortunately his undisguised admiration of Edith was a safeguard to me. He was too artless to conceal it, yet too modest to express it. It was evinced by the mute eloquence of eyes that gazed upon her, as on a celestial being; and the listening ear, that seemed to drink in the lowest sound of her sweet, low voice. He was asked to exhibit his sketches, which were pronounced bold, splendid, and masterly.

Edith was leaning on her brother's shoulder, when she recognized her own likeness, most faithfully and gracefully executed. She started, blushed, and looked towards young Julian, whose expressive eyes were riveted on her face, as if deprecating her displeasure. There were no traces of it on her lovely countenance; even a smile played on her lips, at the faint reflection of her own loveliness.

And thus commenced an acquaintance, or I might say an attachment, as sudden and romantic as is ever described in the pages of the novelist. As soon as the diffidence that veiled his first introduction wore away, he called forth his peculiar powers of pleasing, and Edith was not insensible to their fascination. Since her brother's marriage, she had felt a vacuum in her heart, which often involved her in a soft cloud of pensiveness. She was unthroned, and like an uncrowned queen she sighed over the remembrance of her former royalty. It was not strange that the devotion of Julian, the enthusiasm of his character, the fervor of his language, the ardor, the grace of his manner, should have captivated her imagination and touched her heart. I never saw any one so changed in so short a time. The contrast was almost as great, to her former self, as between a placid silver lake, and the foam of the torrent sparkling and flashing with rainbows. Her countenance had lost its air of divine repose, and varied with every emotion of her soul. She was a thousand times more beautiful, and I loved her far more than I had ever done before. There was something unnatural in her exclusive, jealous love of her brother, but now she acknowledged the supremacy of the great law of woman's destiny. Like a flower, suddenly shaken by a southern gale, and giving out the most delicious perfumes unknown before, her heart fluttered and expanded and yielded both its hidden sweetnesses.

"We must not encourage him," said Mrs. Linwood to her son. "We do not know who he is; we do not know his family or his lineage; we must withdraw Edith from the influence of his fascinations."

I did not blame her, but I felt the sting to my heart's core. She saw the wound she had unconsciously made, and hastened to apply a balm.

"The husband either exalts, or lowers, a wife to the position he occupies," said she, looking kindly at me. "She loses her own identity in his. Poverty would present no obstacle, for she has wealth sufficient to be disinterested,—but my daughter must take a stainless name, if she relinquish her own. But why do I speak thus? My poor, crippled child! She has disowned the thought of marriage. She has chosen voluntarily an unwedded lot. She does not, cannot, will not think with any peculiar interest of this young stranger. No, no,—my Edith is set apart by her misfortunes, as some enshrined and holy being, whom man must vainly love."

I had never seen Mrs. Linwood so much agitated. Her eyes glistened, her voice faltered with emotion. Ernest, too, seemed greatly troubled. They had both been accustomed to look upon Edith as consecrated to a vestal life; and as she had hitherto turned coldly and decidedly from the addresses of men, they believed her inaccessible to the vows of love and the bonds of wedlock. The young Julian was a poet as well as an artist; his pictures were considered masterpieces of genius in the painting galleries of the cities; he was, as report said, and as he himself modestly but decidedly affirmed, by birth and education a gentleman; he had the prestige of a rising fame,—but he was a stranger. I remembered my mother's history, and the youth of St. James seemed renewed in this interesting young man. I trembled for the future happiness of Edith, who, whatever might be her decision with regard to marriage, now unmistakably and romantically loved. Again I asked myself, "might not this young man be the son of the unfortunate Theresa, who under an assumed name was concealing the unhappy circumstances of his birth?"

"Let us leave this place," said Ernest, "and put a stop at once to the danger we dread. Are you willing, Gabriella, to quit these sublime Falls to-morrow?"

"I shall carry them with me," I answered, laughingly. "They are henceforth a part of my own being."

"They will prove rather an inconvenient accompaniment," replied he; "and if we turn our face on our return to the White Mountains, will you bring them back also?"

"Certainly. Take me the whole world over, and every thing of beauty and sublimity will cling to my soul inseparably and forever."

"Will you ask Edith, if she will be ready?"

She was in the room which she occupied with her mother, and there I sought her. She was reading what seemed to be a letter; but as I approached her I saw that it was poetry, and from her bright blushes, I imagined it an effusion of young Julian's. She did not conceal it, but looked up with such a radiant expression of joy beaming through a shade of bashfulness, I shrunk from the task imposed upon me.

"Dear Edith," said I, laying my hand on her beautiful hair, "your brother wishes to leave here to-morrow. Will you be ready?"

She started, trembled, then turned aside her face, but I could see the starting tear and the deepened blush.

"Of course I will," she answered, after a moment's pause. "It is far better that we should go,—I know it is,—but it would have been better still, had we never come."

"And why, my darling sister? You have seemed very happy."

"Too happy, Gabriella. All future life must pay the penalty due to a brief infatuation. I have discovered and betrayed the weakness, the madness of my heart. I know too well why Ernest has hastened our departure."

"Dearest Edith," said I, sitting down by her and taking her hand in both mine, "do not reproach yourself for a sensibility so natural, so innocent, nay more, so noble. Do not, from mistaken delicacy, sacrifice your own happiness, and that of another which is, I firmly believe, forever intertwined with it. Confide in your mother,—confide in your brother, who think you have made a solemn resolution to live a single life. They do not know this young man; but give them an opportunity of knowing him. Cast him not off, if you love him; for I would almost stake my life upon his integrity and honor."

"Blessings, Gabriella, for this generous confidence!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round me, with all the impulsiveness of childhood; "but it is all in vain. Do you think I would take advantage of Julian's uncalculating love, and entail upon him for life the support and guardianship of this frail, helpless form? Do you think I would hang a dead, dull weight on the wings of his young ambition? Oh, no! You do not know me, Gabriella."

"I know you have very wrong views of yourself," I answered; "and I fear you will do great wrong to others, if you do not change them. You are not helpless. No bird of the wild-wood wings their way more fearlessly and lightly than yourself. You are not frail now. Health glows on your cheek and beams in your eye. You cling to a resolution conceived in early youth, before you recovered from the effects of a painful malady. A dull weight! Why, Edith, you would rest like down on his mounting wings. You would give them a more heavenly flight. Do not, beloved Edith, indulge these morbid feelings. There is a love, stronger, deeper than a sister's affection. You feel it now. You forgive me for loving Ernest. You forgive him for loving me. I believe Julian worthy of your heart. Give him hope, give him time, and he will come erelong, crowned with laurels, and lay them smiling at your feet."

"Dear, inspiring Gabriella!" she exclaimed, "you infuse new life and joy into my inmost soul. I feel as if I could discard these crutches and walk on air. No; I am not helpless. If there was need, I could toil for him I loved with all a woman's zeal. These hands could minister to his necessities, this heart be a shield and buckler in the hour of danger. Thank Heaven, I am lifted above want, and how blest to share the gifts of fortune with one they would so nobly grace! But do you really think that I ought to indulge such dreams? Am not I a cripple? Has not God set a mark upon me?"

"No,—you shall not call yourself one. You are only lifted above the gross earth, because you are more angelic than the rest of us. I hear your mother's coming footsteps; I will leave you together, that you may reveal to her all that is passing in your heart."

I left her; and as I passed Mrs. Linwood on the stairs, and met her anxious eyes, I said: "Edith has the heart of a woman. I know by my own experience how gently you will deal with it."

She kissed me without speaking; but I read in her expressive countenance that mingled look of grief and resignation with which we follow a friend to that bourne where we cannot follow them. Edith was lost to her. She was willing to forsake her mother for the stranger's home,—she who seemed bound to her by the dependence of childhood, as well as the close companionship of riper years. I read this in her saddened glance; but I did not deem her selfish. Other feelings, too, doubtless blended with her own personal regrets. She had no reason to look upon marriage as a state of perfect felicity. Her own had been unhappy. She knew the dark phantom that haunted our wedded hours; and what if the same hereditary curse should cling to Edith,—who might become morbidly sensitive on account of her personal misfortune?

Knowing it was the last evening of our stay, I felt as if every moment were lost, passed within doors. It seemed to me, now, as if I had literally seen nothing, so stupendously did images of beauty and grandeur grow upon my mind, and so consciously and surprisingly did my mind expand to receive them.

The hour of sunset approached,—the last sunset that I should behold, shining in golden glory on the sheeted foam of the Falls. And then I saw, what I never expect to witness again, till I see the eternal rainbows round about the throne of God,—three entire respondent circles, one glowing with seven-fold beams within the other, full, clear, distinct as the starry stripes of our country's banner,—no fracture in the smooth, majestic curves,—no dimness in the gorgeous dyes.

And moonlight,—moonlight on the Falls! I have read of moonlight on the ruins of the Coliseum; in the mouldering remains of Grecian elegance and Roman magnificence; but what is it compared to this? The eternal youth, the undecaying grandeur of nature, illumined by that celestial light which lends glory to ruins, and throws the illusion of beauty over the features of decay!

Edith wandered with Julian in the stilly moonlight, and their low voices were heard by each other amid the din of the roaring cataract.

Ernest was troubled. He was jealous even of a sister's love, and looked coldly on the aspiring Julian.

"He must prove himself worthy of Edith," he said. "He must not follow her to Grandison Place, till he can bring credentials, establishing his claims to confidence and regard."

Before we parted at night Edith drew me aside, and told me that her mother had consented to leave the decision of her destiny to time, which would either prove Julian's claims to her love, or convince her that he was unworthy of her regard. He was not permitted to accompany her home; but she was sure he would follow, with testimonials, such as a prince need not blush to own.

"How strange, how very strange it seems," she said, her eyes beaming with that soft and sunny light which comes from the day-spring of the heart, "for me to look forward to a future such as now I see, through a flowery vista of hope and love. How strange, that in so short a time so mighty a change should be wrought! Had Ernest remained single, my heart would have known no vacuum, so entirely did he fill, so exclusively did he occupy it. But since his marriage it has seemed a lonely temple with a deserted shrine. Julian has strewed flowers upon the altar, and their fragrance has perfumed my life. Even if they wither, their odor will remain and shed sweetness over my dying hour."

Sweet, angelic Edith! may no untimely blight fall on thy garland of love, no thorns be found with its glowing blossoms, no canker-worm of jealousy feed on their early bloom.

The morning of our departure, as I looked back where Julian stood, pale and agitated, following the receding form of Edith, with a glance of the most intense emotion, I saw a gentleman approach the pillar against which he was leaning, whose appearance riveted my attention. He was a stranger, who had probably arrived the evening before, and, preoccupied as Julian was, he extended his hand eagerly to meet the grasp of his. He was tall, much taller than Julian, and of a very stately mien. He looked as if he might be in the meridian of life, and yet his hair, originally black, was mingled with snowy locks around the temples, and on the crown of his head. I saw this as he lifted his hat on approaching Julian, with the firm, proud step which indicates intellectual power. What was there about this stranger that haunted me long after the thunders of the cataract had ceased to reverberate on the ear? Where had I seen a countenance and figure resembling his? Why did I feel an irresistible desire to check the rolling wheels that bore me every moment further from that stately form with its crown of living snow?

"How long will you remain in that uncomfortable position?" asked Ernest. The spell was broken. I turned, and met the glance that needed no explanation. This earnest scrutiny of a stranger excited his displeasure; and I did not wonder, when I thought of the strange fascination I had experienced. I blushed, and drew my veil over my face,—resolving henceforth to set a guard over my eyes as well as my lips. It was the first dark-flashing glance I had met since I had left Grandison Place. It was the last expiring gleam of a baleful flame. I knew it must be; and, leaning back in the carriage, I sunk into one of those reveries which I used to indulge in childhood,—when the gates of sunset opened to admit my wandering spirit, and the mysteries of cloud-land were revealed to the dream-girl's eye.



CHAPTER XLVI.

The very evening after our return, while Dr. Harlowe was giving an account of his stewardship, and congratulating Edith and myself on the bloom and animation we had acquired, a gentleman was announced, and Richard Clyde entered. The heart-felt, joyous welcome due to the friend who is just returned from a foreign land, greeted his entrance. Had I known of his coming, I might have repressed the pleasure that now spontaneously rose; but I forgot every thing at this moment, but the companion of my childhood, the sympathizing mourner by my mother's grave, the unrequited lover, but the true and constant friend. He was so much improved in person and manners; he was so self-possessed, so manly, so frank, so cordial! He came among us like a burst of sunshine; and we all—all but one—felt his genial influence. He came into the family like a long absent son and brother. Why could not Ernest have welcomed him as such? Why did he repel with coldness and suspicion the honest, ingenuous heart that longed to meet his with fraternal warmth and confidence? I could not help drawing comparisons unfavorable to Ernest. He, who had travelled through the same regions, who had drank of the same inspiring streams of knowledge as the young student, who came fresh and buoyant from the classic halls where he had himself gained honor and distinction,—he, sat cold and reserved, while Richard dispensed life and brightness on all around.

"Oh, how much this is like home!" he exclaimed, when the lateness of the hour compelled him to depart; "how happy, how grateful I am, to meet so kind, so dear a welcome. It warmed my heart, in anticipation, beyond the Atlantic waves. I remembered the maternal kindness that cheered and sustained me in my collegiate probation, and blessed my dawning manhood. I remembered Edith's heavenly music, and Gabriella's."

He had become so excited by the recollections he was clothing in words, that he lost the command of his voice as soon as he mentioned my name. Perhaps the associations connected with it were more powerful than he imagined; but whatever was the cause he stopped abruptly, bowed, and left the room.

Mrs. Linwood followed him into the passage, and I heard her telling him that he must consider Grandison Place his home indeed, for she felt that she had welcomed back another beloved son. She was evidently hurt by the chilling reserve of Ernest's manners, and wished to make up for it by the cordial warmth of her own.

"There goes as fine a youth as ever quickened the pulses of a maiden's heart," said Dr. Harlowe, as Richard's quick steps were heard on the gravel walk; "I am proud of him, we all ought to be proud of him. He is a whole-souled, whole-hearted, right-minded young man, worth a dozen of your fashionable milk-sops. He is a right down splendid fellow. I cannot imagine why this sly little puss was so blind to his merits; but I suppose the greater glory dimmed the less."

Good, excellent Dr. Harlowe! Why was he always saying something to rouse the slumbering serpent in the bosom of Ernest? Slumbering, did I say? Alas! it was already awakened, and watching for its prey. The doctor had the simplicity of a child, but the shrewdness of a man. Had he dreamed of the suffering Ernest's unfortunate temperament caused, he would have blistered his tongue sooner than have given me a moment's pain. He suspected him of jealousy, of the folly, not the madness of jealousy, and mischievously liked to sport with a weakness which he supposed evaporated with the cloud of the brow, or vanished in the lightning of the eye. He little imagined the stormy gust that swept over us after his departure.

"Mother!" exclaimed Ernest, as soon as the doctor had closed the door, in a tone which I had never heard him use to her before, "I will no longer tolerate that man's impertinence and presumption. He never comes here that he does not utter insulting words, which no gentleman should allow in his own house. It is not the first, nor the second, nor the third time that he has insulted me through my wife. His superior age, and your profound respect for him, shall no longer prevent the expression of my indignation. I shall let him know on what terms he ever again darkens this threshold."

"Ernest!" cried his mother, with a look in which indignation and grief struggled for mastery, "do you forget that it is your mother whom you are addressing?—that it is her threshold not yours on which you have laid this withering ban?"

"Had not Dr. Harlowe been your friend, and this house yours, I should have told him my sentiments long since; but while I would not forget my respect as a son, I must remember my dignity as a husband, and I will allow no man to treat my wife with the familiarity he uses, polluting her wedded ears with allusions to her despairing lovers, and endeavoring indirectly to alienate her affections from me."

"Stop, Ernest, you are beside yourself," said Mrs. Linwood, and the mounting color in her face deepened to crimson,—"you shall not thus asperse a good and guileless man. Your insane passion drives you from reason, from honor, and from right. It dwarfs the fair proportions of your mind, and deforms its moral beauty. I have been wrong, sinful, weak, in yielding to your infirmity, and trying by every gentle and persuasive means to lead you into the green pastures and by the still waters of domestic peace. I have counselled Gabriella, when I have seen her young heart breaking under the weight of your suspicions, to bow meekly and let the storm pass over her. But I do so no more. I will tell her to stand firm and undaunted, and breast the tempest. I will stand by her side, and support her in my arms, and shield her with my breast. Come, Gabriella, come, my child; if my son will be unjust, will be insane, I will at least protect you from the consequences of his guilty rashness."

I sprang into her arms that opened to enfold me, and hid my face on her breast. I could not bear to look upon the humiliation of Ernest, who stood like one transfixed by his mother's rebuking glance. I trembled like an aspen, there was something so fearful in the roused indignation of one usually so calm and self-possessed. Edith sunk upon a seat in a passion of tears, and "oh, brother!—oh, mother!" burst through thick-coming sobs from her quivering lips.

"Mother!" exclaimed Ernest,—and his voice sounded hollow and unnatural,—"I have reason to be angry,—I do not deserve this stern rebuke,—you know not how much I have borne and forborne for your sake. But if my mother teaches that rebellion to my will is a wife's duty, it is time indeed that we should part."

"Oh, Ernest!" cried Edith; "oh, my brother! you will break my heart."

And rising, she seemed to fly to his side, and throwing her arms round his neck, she lifted up her voice and wept aloud.

"Hush, my daughter, hush, Edith," said her mother. "I wish my son to hear me, and if they were the last words I ever expected to utter, they could not be more solemn. I have loved you, Ernest, with a love bordering on idolatry,—with a pride most sinful in a Christian parent,—but even the strength of a mother's love will yield at last before the stormy passions that desolate her home. The spirit of the Spartan mother, who told her son when he left her for the battle field, 'to return with his shield, or on it,' animates my bosom. I had far, far rather weep over the grave of my son, than live to blush for his degeneracy."

"And I would far rather be in my grave, this moment," he answered, in the same hoarse, deep undertone, "than suffer the agonies of the last few hours. Let me die,—let me die at once; then take this young man to your bosom, where he has already supplanted me. Make him your son in a twofold sense, for, by the heaven that hears me, I believe you would bless the hour that gave him the right to Gabriella's love."

"Father, forgive him, he knows not what he utters," murmured his mother, lifting her joined hands to heaven. I still clung to her in trembling awe, forgetting my own sorrow in the depth and sacredness of hers. "Ernest," she said, in a louder tone, "I cannot continue this painful scene. I will go to my own chamber and pray for you; pray for your release from the dominion of the powers of darkness. Oh, my son! I tremble for you. You are standing on the brink of a terrible abyss. The fiend that lurked in the bowers of Eden, and made its flowers dim with the smoke of fraternal blood, is whispering in your ear. Beware, my son, beware. Every sigh and tear caused by the indulgence of unhallowed passion, cries as loud to Almighty God for vengeance as Abel's reeking blood. Come, Gabriella, I leave him to reflection and prayer. I leave him to God and his own soul. Come, Edith, leave him and follow me."

There was something so commanding in her accent and manner I dared not resist her, though I longed to remain and whisper words of peace and love to my unhappy husband. I knew that his soul must be crushed into the dust, and my heart bled for his sufferings. Edith, too, withdrew her clinging arms, for she dared not disobey her mother, and slowly and sadly followed us up the winding stairs.

"Go to bed, my child," said she to Edith, when we reached the upper platform. "May God in his mercy spare you from witnessing another scene like this."

"Oh, mother! I never shall feel happy again. My poor brother! you did not see him, mother, when you left him. You did not look upon him, or you could not have left him. There was death on his face. Forgive him, dear mother! take him back to your heart."

"And do you think he is not here?" she exclaimed, pressing her hands on her heart, as if trying to sustain herself under an intense pain. "Do you think he suffers alone? Do you think I have left him, but for his good? Do you think I would not now gladly fold him in my arms and bathe his soul in the overflowing tenderness of maternal love? O child, child! Earth has no sounding line to fathom the depths of a mother's heart. Good-night. God bless you, my darling Edith."

"And Gabriella?"

"Will remain with me."

Mrs. Linwood, whose left arm still encircled me, brought me into her chamber, and closed the door. She was excessively pale, and I mechanically gave her a glass of water. She thanked me; and seating herself at a little table, on which an astral lamp was burning, she began to turn the leaves of a Bible, which always lay there. I observed that her hands trembled and that her lips quivered.

"There is but one fountain which can refresh the fainting spirit," she said, laying her hand on the sacred volume. "It is the fountain of living waters, which, whosoever will, may drink, and receive immortal strength."

She turned the leaves, but there was mist over her vision,—she could not distinguish the well-known characters.

"Read for me, my beloved Gabriella," said she, rising and motioning me to the seat she had quitted. "I was looking for the sixty-second Psalm."

She seated herself in the shadow of the curtain, while I nerved myself for the appointed task. My voice was at first low and tremulous, but as the sound of the words reached my ear, they penetrated my soul, like a strain of solemn music. I felt the divine influence of those breathings of humanity, sanctified by the inspiration of the Deity. I felt the same consciousness of man's insignificance as when I listened to Niagara's eternal roar. And yet, if God cared for us, there was exaltation and glory in the thought.

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance and my God."

"Go on," said Mrs. Linwood, as I paused on this beautiful and consoling verse; "your voice is sweet, my child, and there is balm in every hallowed word."

I turned to the ninety-first Psalm, which I had so often read to my own dear mother, and which I had long known by heart; then the hundred and sixteenth, which was a favorite of Ernest's. My voice faltered. I thought of him in loneliness and anguish, and my tears blotted the sacred lines. We both remained silent, for the awe of God's spirit was upon us, and the atmosphere made holy by the incense of His breath.

A low, faint knock at the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Linwood, supposing it a servant. She started, when the door opened, and Ernest, pale as a ghost, stood on the threshold. I made a movement towards him, but he did not look at me. His eyes were riveted on his mother, who had half risen at his entrance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and approaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, and bowed his head in her lap.

"Mother," said he, in broken accents, "I come, like the returning prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son,—give me but the hireling's place, provided it be near thy heart."

"And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my beloved, my only one?" she cried, bending down and clasping her arms around him. "Heavenly Father! I thank thee for this hour."

Never had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when the holy tears of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks, and baptized their spirits as in a regenerating shower. My own tears flowed in unison; but I drew back, feeling as if it were sacrilege to intrude on such a scene. My first impulse was to steal from the room, leaving them to the unwitnessed indulgence of their sacred emotions; but I must pass them, and I would not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against them.

Mrs. Linwood was the first to recognize my presence; she raised her head and beckoned me to approach. As I obeyed her motion, Ernest rose from his knees, and taking my hand, held it for a moment closely, firmly in his own; he did not embrace me, as he had always done in the transports of reconciliation; he seemed to hold me from him in that controlling grasp, and there was something thrilling, yet repelling, in the dark depths of his eyes that held me bound to the spot where I stood.

"Remain with my mother, Gabriella," said he; "I give you back to her guardianship, till I have done penance for the sins of this night. The lips that have dared to speak to a mother, and such a mother, the words of bitterness and passion, are unworthy to receive the pledge of love. My eyes are opened to the enormity of my offence, and I abhor myself in dust and ashes; my spirit shall clothe itself in garments of sackcloth and mourning, and drink of the bitter cup of humiliation. Hear, then, my solemn vow;—nay, my mother, nay, Gabriella,—I must, I will speak. My Saviour fasted forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, he, who knew not sin, and shall not I, vile as a malefactor, accursed as a leper, do something to prove my penitence and self-abasement? For forty days I abjure love, joy, domestic endearments, and social pleasures,—I will live on bread and water,—I will sleep on the uncarpeted floor,—or pass my nights under the canopy of heaven."

Pale and shuddering I listened to this wild, stem vow, fearing that his reason was forsaking him. No martyr at the stake ever wore an expression of more sublime self-sacrifice.

"Alas, my son!" exclaimed his mother, "one tear such as you have shed this hour is worth a hundred rash vows. Vain and useless are they as the iron bed, the girdle of steel, the scourge of the fanatic, who expects to force by self-inflicted tortures the gates of heaven to open. Do you realize to what sufferings you are dooming the hearts that love you, and whose happiness is bound up in yours? Do you realize that you are making our home dark and gloomy as the dungeons of the Inquisition?"

"Not so, my mother; Gabriella shall be free as air, free as before she breathed her marriage vows. To your care I commit her. Let not one thought of me cloud the sunshine of the domestic board, or wither one garland of household joy. I have imposed this penance on myself in expiation of my offences as a son and as a husband. If I am wrong, may a merciful God forgive me. The words are uttered, and cannot be recalled. I cannot add perjury to the dark list of my transgressions. Farewell, mother; farewell, Gabriella; pray for me. Your prayers will call down ministering angels, who shall come to me in the hour of nature's agony, to relieve and sustain me."

He left us, closed the door, and passed down the stairs, which gave a faint echo to his retreating footsteps. We looked at each other in grief and amazement, and neither of us spoke for several minutes.

"My poor, misguided boy!" at length burst from his mother's pale lips, "I fear I was too harsh,—I probed him too deeply,—I have driven him to the verge of madness. Oh! how difficult it is to deal with a spirit so strangely, so unhappily constituted! I have tried indulgence, and the evil seemed to grow with alarming rapidity. I have exercised a parent's authority, and behold the result. I can do nothing now, but obey his parting injunction,—pray for him."

She folded her hands across her knees, and looked down in deep, revolving thought.

Forty days of gloom and estrangement! Forty days! Oh! what a wilderness would life be during those long, long days! And what was there beyond? I dared not think. A dreary shadow of coming desolation,—like the cold, gray mist which wrapped me as I stood on the rocks of Niagara, hung over the future. Would I lift it if I could? Oh, no! Perish the hand that would anticipate the day of God's revealing.



CHAPTER XLVII.

Ernest, faithful to his vow, slept on the floor in the library, and though he sat down at the table with us, he tasted nothing but bread and water. A stranger might not have observed any striking difference in his manners, but he had forbidden himself even the glance of affection, and his eye studiously and severely avoided mine. From the table he returned to the library, and shut himself up till the next bell summoned us to our now joyless and uncomfortable meals.

I cannot describe the tortures I endured during this season of unnatural and horrible constraint. It sometimes seemed as if I should grow crazy; and poor Edith was scarcely less unhappy. It was now that Mrs. Linwood showed her extraordinary powers of self-control, her wisdom, and intellectual strength. Calmly and serenely she fulfilled her usual duties, as mistress of her household and benefactress of the village. To visitors and friends she was the same hospitable and charming hostess that had thrown such enchantment over the granite walls of Grandison Place. She had marked out the line of duty for Edith and myself, which we tried to follow, but it was often with sinking hearts and faltering footsteps.

"If Ernest from a mistaken sense of duty has bound himself by a painful and unnatural vow," said she, in that tone of grave sweetness which was so irresistible, "we must not forget the social and domestic duties of life. A threefold responsibility rests upon us, for we must endeavor to bear the burden he has laid down. He must not see the unlimited power he has over our happiness, a power he is now unconsciously abusing. Smile, my children, indulge in all innocent recreations; let me hear once more your voices echoing on the lawn; let me hear the soothing notes of my Edith's harp; let me see my Gabriella's fingers weaving as wont, sweet garlands of flowers."

And now, the house began to be filled up with visitors from the city, who had been anxiously waiting the return of Mrs. Linwood. The character of Ernest for eccentricity and moodiness was so well known, that the peculiar situation in which he had placed himself did not attract immediate attention. But I knew I must appear, what I in reality was for the time, a neglected and avoided wife; and most bitterly, keenly did I suffer in consequence of this impression. In spite of the pain it had caused, I was proud of Ernest's exclusive devotion, and the notice it attracted. I knew I was, by the mortification I experienced, when that devotion was withdrawn. It is true, I knew he was inflicting on himself torments to which the fabled agonies of Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion combined could not be compared; but others did not; they saw the averted eye, the coldness, the distance, the estrangement, but they did not, could not see, the bleeding heart, the agonized spirit hidden beneath the veil.

I ought to mention here the reason that Mr. Regulus did not come as usual to welcome us on our return. He had been appointed professor of mathematics in —— College, and had given up the charge of the academy where he had taught so many years with such indefatigable industry and distinguished success. He was now visiting in Boston, but immediately on his return was to depart to the scene of his new labors.

Mr. Regulus, or, as we should now call him, Professor Regulus, had so long been considered a fixture in town, this change in his destiny created quite a sensation in the circle in which he moved. It seemed impossible to do without him. He was as much a part of the academy as the colossal pen, whose gilded feathers still swept the blue of ether. Were it not for the blight that had fallen on my social joys, I should have mourned the loss of this steadfast friend of my orphan years; but now I could not regret it. The mildew of suspicion rested on our intercourse, and all its pleasant bloom was blasted. He was in Boston. Had he gone to ask the dauntless Meg to be the companion of his life, in the more exalted sphere in which he was about to move? And would she indeed suffer her "wild heart to be tamed by a loving hand?"

What delightful evenings we might now have enjoyed had not the dark passion of Ernest thrown such a chilling shadow over the household! Richard came almost every night, for it was his home. He loved and reverenced Mrs. Linwood, as if she were his own mother. Edith was to him as a sweet and gentle sister; and though never by word or action he manifested a feeling for me which I might not sanction and return as the wife of another, I knew, that no one had supplanted me in his affections, that I was still the Gabriella whom he had enshrined in his boyish heart,—in "all save hope the same." He saw that I was unhappy, and he pitied me. The bright sparkle of his eye always seemed quenched when it turned to me, and his voice when it addressed me had a gentler, more subdued tone. But his spirit was so sparkling, so elastic, his manners so kind and winning, his conversation so easy and graceful, it was impossible for sadness or constraint to dwell long in his presence. Did I never contrast his sunny temper, his unselfish disposition, his happy, genial temperament, with the darkness and moodiness and despotism of Ernest? Did I never sigh that I had not given my young heart to one who would have trusted me even as he loved, and surrounded me with a golden atmosphere of confidence, calm and beautiful as an unclouded autumn sky? Did I not tremble at the thought of passing my whole life in the midst of the tropic storms, the thunders and lightnings of passions?

And yet I loved Ernest with all the intensity of my first affection. I would have sacrificed my life to have given peace to his troubled and warring spirit. His self-imposed sufferings almost maddened me. My heart, as it secretly clung to him and followed his lonely steps as, faithful to his frantic vow, he withdrew from domestic and social intercourse,—longed to express its emotions in words as wildly impassioned as these:—

"Thou hast called me thine angel in moments of bliss, Still thine angel I'll prove 'mid the horrors of this. Through the furnace unshrinking thy steps I'll pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, and perish there too."

Oh, most beloved, yet most wretched and deluded husband, why was this dark thread,—this cable cord, I might say,—twisted with the pure and silvery virtues of thy character?

In the midst of this unhappy state of things, Margaret Melville arrived. She returned with Mr. Regulus, who brought her one beautiful evening, at the soft, twilight hour, to Grandison Place. Whether it was the subdued light in which we first beheld her, or the presence of her dignified companion, she certainly was much softened. Her boisterous laugh was quite melodized, and her step did not make the crystal drops of the girandoles tinkle as ominously as they formerly did. Still, it seemed as if a dozen guests had arrived in her single person. There was such superabundant vitality about her. As for Mr. Regulus, he was certainly going on even unto perfection, for his improvement in the graces was as progressive and as steady as the advance of the rolling year. I could not but notice the extreme elegance of his dress. He was evidently "at some cost to entertain himself."

"Come up stairs with me, darling," said she to me, catching my hand and giving it an emphatic squeeze; "help me to lay aside this uncomfortable riding dress,—besides," she whispered, "I have so much to tell you."

As we left the room and passed Mr. Regulus, who was standing near the door, the glance she cast upon him, bright, smiling, triumphant, and happy, convinced me that my conjectures were right.

"My dear creature!" she exclaimed, as soon as we were in my own chamber, throwing herself down on the first seat she saw, and shaking her hair loose over her shoulders, "I am so glad to see you. You do not know how happy I am,—I mean how glad I am,—you did not expect me, did you?"

"I thought Mr. Regulus had gone to see you, but I did not know that he would be fortunate enough to bring you back with him. He discovered last winter, I have no doubt, what a pleasant travelling companion you were."

"Oh, Gabriella, I could tell you something so strange, so funny,"—and here she burst into one of her old ringing laughs, that seemed perfectly uncontrollable.

"I think I can guess what it is," I said, assisting her at her toilet, which was never an elaborate business with her. "You and Mr. Regulus are very good friends, perhaps betrothed lovers. Is that so very strange?"

"Who told you?" she exclaimed, turning quickly round, her cheeks crimsoned and her eyes sparkling most luminously,—"who told you such nonsense?"

"It does not require any supernatural knowledge to know this," I answered. "I anticipated it when you were in New York, and most sincerely do I congratulate you on the possession of so excellent and noble a heart. Prize it, dear Margaret, and make yourself worthy of all it can, of all it will impart, to ennoble and exalt your own."

"Ah! I fear I never shall be worthy of it," she cried, giving me an enthusiastic embrace, and turning aside her head to hide a starting tear; "but I do prize it, Gabriella, beyond all words."

"Ah, you little gypsy!" she exclaimed, suddenly resuming her old wild manner, "why did you not prize it yourself? He has told me all about the romantic scenes of the academy,—he says you transformed him from a rough boor into a feeling, tender-hearted man,—that you stole into his very inmost being, like the breath of heaven, and made the barren wilderness blossom like the rose. Ah! you ought to hear how beautifully he talks of you. But I am not jealous of you."

"Heaven forbid!" I involuntarily cried.

"You may well say that," said she, looking earnestly in my face; "you may well say that, darling. But where is Ernest? I have not seen him yet."

"He is in the library, I believe. He is not very well; and you know he never enjoys company much."

"The same jealous, unreasonable being he ever was, I dare say," she vehemently exclaimed. "It is a shame, and a sin, and a burning sin, for him to go on as he does. Mr. Regulus says he could weep tears of blood to think how you have sacrificed yourself to him."

"Margaret,—Margaret! If you have one spark of love for me,—one feeling of respect and regard for Mrs. Linwood, your mother's friend and your own, never, never speak of Ernest's peculiarities. I cannot deny them; I cannot deny that they make me unhappy, and fill me with sad forebodings; but he is my husband,—and I cannot hear him spoken of with bitterness. He is my husband; and I love him in spite of his wayward humors, with all the romance of girlish passion, and all the tenderness of wedded love."

"Is love so strong as to endure every thing?" she asked.

"It is so divine as to forgive every thing," I answered.

"Well! you are an angel, and I will try to set a guard on these wild lips, so that they shall not say aught to wound that dear, precious, blessed little heart of yours. I will be just as good as I can be; and if I forget myself once in a while, you must forgive me,—for the old Adam is in me yet. There, how does that look?"

She had dressed herself in a plain white muslin, with a white sash carelessly tied; and a light fall of lace was the only covering to her magnificent arms and neck.

"Why, you look like a bride, Margaret," said I. "Surely, you must think Mrs. Linwood is going to have a party to-night. Never mind,—we will all admire you as much as if you were a bride. Let me twist some of these white rosebuds in your hair, to complete the illusion."

I took some from the vase that stood upon my toilet, and wreathed them in her black, shining locks. She clapped her hands joyously as she surveyed her image in the mirror; then laughed long and merrily, and asked if she did not look like a fool.

"Do you think there is any thing peculiar in my dress?" she suddenly asked, pulling the lace rather strenuously, considering its gossamer texture. "I do not wish to look ridiculous."

"No, indeed. It is like Edith's and mine. We always wear white muslin in summer, you know; but you never seemed to care much about dressing here in the country. I never saw you look so well, so handsome, Madge."

"Thank you. Let us go down. But, stop one moment. Do you think Mrs. Linwood will think it strange that I should come here with Mr. Regulus?"

"No, indeed."

"What do you think she will say about our—our engagement?"

"She will be very much pleased. I heard her say that if you should become attached to a man of worth and talents such as he possesses, you would become a good and noble woman."

"Did she say that? Heaven bless her, body and soul. I wonder how she could have any trust or faith in such a Greenland bear as I have been. I will not say am, for I think I have improved some, don't you?"

"Yes! and I believe it is only the dawn of a beautiful day of womanhood."

Margaret linked her arm in mine with a radiant smile and a vivid blush, and tripped down stairs with a lightness almost miraculous. Mr. Regulus was standing at the foot of the stairs leaning on the bannisters, in a musing attitude. As soon as he saw us, his countenance lighted up with a joyful animation, and he offered his arm to Margaret with eager gallantry. I wondered I had not discovered before how very good looking he was. Never, till he visited us in New York, had I thought of him but as an awkward, rather homely gentleman. Now his smile was quite beautiful, and as I accompanied them into the drawing-room, I thought they were quite a splendid-looking pair. Mrs. Linwood was in the front room, which was quite filled with guests and now illuminated for the night.

"Not now," I heard Margaret whisper, drawing back a little; "wait a few moments."

"Oh! it will be all over in a second," said he, taking her hand and leading her up to Mrs. Linwood, who raised her eyes with surprise at the unwonted ceremony of their approach, and the blushing trepidation of Margaret's manner.

"Permit me to introduce Mrs. Regulus," said he, with a low bow; and though he reddened to the roots of his hair, he looked round with a smiling and triumphant glance. Margaret curtsied with mock humility down to the ground, then breaking loose from his hand, she burst into one of her Madge Wildfire laughs, and attempted to escape from the room. But she was intercepted by Dr. Harlowe, who caught her by the arm and kissed her with audible good-will, declaring it was a physician's fee. The announcement of the marriage was received with acclamation and clapping of hands. You should have heard Edith laugh; it was like the chime of silvery bells. It was so astonishing she could not, would not believe it. It was exactly like one of Meg's wild pranks to play such a farce. But it was a solemn truth. Margaret, the bride of the morning, became the presiding queen of the evening; and had it not been for the lonely occupant of the library, how gaily and happily the hours would have flown by. How must the accents of mirth that echoed through the hall torture, if they reached his morbid and sensitive ear! If I could only go to him and tell him the cause of the unwonted merriment; but I dared not do it. It would be an infringement of the sacredness of his expiatory vow. He would know it, however, at the supper table; but no! he did not appear at the supper table. He sent a message to his mother, that he did not wish any, and the hospitable board was filled without him.

"I can hardly forgive you, Margaret," said Mrs. Linwood, "for not giving us an opportunity of providing a wedding feast. How much better it would have been to have had the golden ring and fatted calf of welcome, than this plain, every-day meal."

"Your every-day meals are better than usual wedding feasts," replied Margaret, "and I do not see why one should eat more on such an occasion than any other. You know I care nothing for the good things of this life, though Mr. Regulus may be disappointed."

"Indeed, you are mistaken," said Mr. Regulus, blushing. "I think so little of what I eat and drink, I can hardly tell the difference between tea and coffee."

This was literally true, and many a trick had been played upon him at his boarding place while seated at his meals, with an open book at the left side of his plate, and his whole mind engaged in its contents.

"Mrs. Regulus," said Dr. Harlowe, giving due accent to her new name, "is, as everyone must perceive, one of those ethereal beings who care for nothing more substantial than beefsteak, plum-pudding, and mince-pie. Perhaps an airy slice of roast turkey might also tempt her abstemiousness!"

"Take care, Doctor,—I have some one to protect me now against your lawless tongue," cried Madge, with inimitable good-humor.

"Come and dine with us to-morrow, and you shall prove my words a libel, if you please. I cannot say that my wife will be able to give you any thing better than Mrs. Linwood's poor fare, but it shall be sweetened by a heart-warm welcome, and we will drink the health of the bonny bride in a glass of ruby wine!"

And was it possible that no note was taken of the strange absence of the master of the table? Was it no check to social joy and convivial pleasure? It undoubtedly was, in the first place; but Margaret's exhilarating presence neutralized the effect produced by his absence on the spirits of the guests. The occasion, too, was so unexpected, so inspiring, that even I, sad and troubled as I was, could not help yielding in some degree to its gladdening influence.

After supper I had a long and delightful conversation with my metamorphosed preceptor. He spoke of his marriage with all the ingenuousness and simplicity of a child. He thanked me for having told him, when I parted from him in New York that he had an influence over Margaret that he had not dreamed of possessing. It made him, he said, more observant of her, and more careful of himself, till he ready found her a pleasant study. And somehow, when he had returned to his country home, it seemed dull without her; and he found himself thinking of her, and then writing to her, and then going to see her,—till, to his astonishment, he found himself a lover and a husband. His professorship, too, happened to come at the exact moment, for it emboldened him with hopes of success he could not have cherished as a village teacher.

"How the wild creature happened to love me, a grave, ungainly pedagogue, I cannot divine," he added; "but if gratitude, tenderness, and the most implicit confidence in her truth and affection can make her happy, she shall never regret her heart's choice."

Confidence did he say? Happy, thrice happy Margaret!



CHAPTER XLVIII.

It was an evening of excitement. Edith sang, and Margaret played some of her elfin strains, and Mr. Regulus made music leap joyously from the sounding violin. There was one in the lonely library who might have made sweeter music than all, whose spirit's chords were all jangled and tuneless, and whose ear seemed closed to the concord of melodious sounds. My soul was not tuned to harmony now, but still there was something soothing in its influence, and it relieved me from the necessity of talking, the exertion of seeming what I could not be. It was a luxury to glide unnoticed on the stream of thought, though dark the current, and leading into troubled waters. It was a luxury to think that the sighs of the heart might breathe unheard in the midst of the soft rolling waves of Edith's melody, or the dashing billows of Margaret's. Sometimes when I imagined myself entirely unobserved, and suffered the cloud of sadness that brooded over my spirits to float outwards, if I accidentally raised my eyes, I met those of Richard Clyde fixed on me with an expression of such intense and thrilling sympathy, I would start with a vague consciousness of guilt for having elicited such expressive glances.

Madge was playing as only Madge could play, and Edith standing near the door that opened into the saloon in the front parlor. She looked unusually pale, and her countenance was languid. Was she thinking of Julian, the young artist at the Falls, and wondering if the brief romance of their love were indeed a dream? All at once a change, quick as the electric flash, passed over her face. A bright, rosy cloud rolled over its pallor, like morning breaking in Alpine snows. Even the paly gold of her hair seemed to catch the glory that so suddenly and absolutely illumined her. She was looking into the saloon, and I followed the direction of her kindling eyes. Julian was at that moment crossing the threshold. She had seen him ascending the steps, and her heart sprang forth to meet him. I saw her hesitate, look round for her mother, who was not near her, then, while the rosy cloud deepened to crimson, she floated into the saloon.

I went to Mrs. Linwood, who was in the back parlor, to tell her of the arrival of the new guest. She started and changed color. His coming was the seal of Edith's destiny. "I will not come," he had said to her in parting, "till I can bring abundant testimonials of my spotless lineage and irreproachable reputation."

I had drawn her apart from the company, expecting she would be agitated by the annunciation.

"Should not Ernest know of this?" I asked. "He did not abjure all the rites of hospitality. Oh, for Edith's sake, tell him of Julian's arrival, and entreat him to come forth and welcome him."

"I have been to him once and urged him to greet Mr. Regulus, and merely offer him the usual congratulations on his marriage, but he persistingly refused. I fear he is killing himself by this spirit-scourging vow. I never saw him look so pale and wretched as he does to-night. I dread more and more the consequences of this self-inflicted martyrdom."

As I looked up in Mrs. Linwood's face, on which the light of the chandelier resplendently shone, I observed lines of care on her smooth brow, which were not there two weeks before. The engraver was doing his work delicately, secretly, but he was at work, and it was Ernest's hand that guided the steel as it left its deepening grooves.

"O! that I dared to go to him!" said I; "may I, dear mother? I can but be denied. I will speak to him as a friend, coldly if it must be, but let me speak to him. He can but bid me leave him."

"You too, my darling," said she, in a low, sad-toned voice, "you are wilting like a flower deprived of sunshine and dew. But go. Take this key. He locks himself within, and all you can do he will not grant admittance. The only way is to use this pass-key, which you must return to me. I must go and welcome Julian."

She put the key in my hand, and turned away with a sigh. I trembled at my own audacity. I had never forced myself into his presence, for the dullness of his vow was upon me, and the hand that would have removed the icy barrier he had raised between us was numbed by its coldness.

The way that led to the library was winding, sweeping by the lofty staircase, and terminating in a kind of picture gallery. Some of these were relics of the old Italian masters, and their dark, rich coloring came out in the lamp light with gloomy splendor. I had seen them a hundred times, but never had they impressed me with such lurid grandeur as now. One by one, the dark lines started on the canvas glowing with strange life, and standing out in bold, sublime relief. I hurried by them and stood in front of the library door with the key trembling in my hand. I heard no sound within. All was still as death. Perhaps, exhausted by his lonely vigils, he slept, and it would be cruel to awaken him. Perhaps he would frown on me in anger, for not respecting the sanctity of his vow. I had seen him at noon, but he did not speak or look at me; and as his mother said, he had never appeared so pale, so heart-worn, and so wretched. He was evidently ill and suffering, though to his mother's anxious inquiries he declared himself well, perfectly well. There was one thing which made me glad. The gay, mingling laughs, the sounds of social joy, of music and mirth, came so softened through the long winding avenue, that they broke against the library in a soft, murmuring wave that could not be heard within.

Why did I stand trembling and irresolute, as if I had no right to penetrate that lonely apartment? He was my husband, and a wife's agonized solicitude had drawn me to him. If he repulsed me, I could but turn away and weep;—and was not my pillow wet with nightly tears?

Softly I turned the key, and the door opened, as if touched by invisible hands. He did not hear me,—I know he did not,—for he sat at the upper end of the room, on a window seat, leaning back against the drapery of the curtain that fell darkly behind him. His face was turned towards the window, through whose parted damask the starry night looked in. But though his face was partially turned from me, I could see its contour and its hue as distinctly as those of the marble busts that surrounded him. He looked scarcely less hueless and cold, and his hand, that lay embedded in his dark wavy hair, gleamed white and transparent as alabaster. I stood just within the door, with suspended breath and wildly palpitating heart, praying for courage to break the spell that bound me to the spot. All my strength was gone. I felt myself a guilty intruder in that scene of self-humiliation, penance, and prayer. Though reason condemned his conduct, and mourned over his infatuation, the holiness of his purpose shone around him and sanctified him from ridicule and contempt. There was something pure, spiritual, almost unearthly in his countenance; but suffering and languor cast a shadow over it, that appealed to human sympathy.

If he would only move, only turn towards me! The Israelites, at the foot of the cloud-girdled mount, whose fiery zone they were forbidden to pass, could scarcely have felt more awe and dread than I did, strange and weak as it may seem. I moved nearer, still more near, till my shadow fell upon him. Then he started and rose to his feet, and looked upon me, like one suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.

"Gabriella!" he exclaimed.

Oh! I cannot describe the inexpressible softness, tenderness, and music of his accent. It was as if the whole heart were melting into that single word. All my preconceived resolutions vanished, all coldness, alienation, and constraint. "I had found him whom my soul loved." My arms were twined around him,—I was clasped to his bosom with the most passionate emotion, and the hearts so violently wrenched asunder once more throbbed against each other.

"Ernest, beloved Ernest!"

"Temptress, sorceress!" he suddenly exclaimed, pushing me from him with frenzied gesture,—"you have come to destroy my soul,—I have broken my solemn vow,—I have incurred the vengeance of Almighty God. Peace was flowing over me like a river, but now all the waves and billows of passion are gone over me. I sink,—I perish, and you, you,—Gabriella, it is you who plunge me in the black abyss of perjury and guilt."

I was terrified at the dark despair that settled on his brow. I feared his reason was forsaking him, and that I, in my rashness, had accelerated his doom.

"Do not, do not talk so dreadfully, Ernest. Forgive me, if I have done wrong in coming. Forgive me, if for one moment I recalled you to the tenderness you have so long abjured. But mine is the offence, and mine be the sorrow. Do not, I pray you, blame yourself so cruelly for my transgression, if it indeed be one. Oh, Ernest, how pale, how wretched you look! You are killing yourself and me,—your mother too. We cannot live in this state of alienation. The time of your vow is only half expired,—only twenty days are past, and they seem twenty years of woe. Dear Ernest, you are tempting God by this. One tear of penitence, one look of faith, one prayer to Christ for mercy, are worth more than years of penance and lonely torture. Revoke this rash vow. Come back to us, my Ernest,—come down from the wilderness, leave the desolate places of despair, and come where blessings wait you. Your mother waits to bless you,—Edith waits you to greet and welcome her Julian,—Margaret, a happy bride, waits your friendly congratulations. Come, and disperse by your presence the shadow that rests on the household."

"Would you indeed counsel me to break a solemn vow, Gabriella? It may have been rash; but it was a vow; and were I to break it, I should feel forever dishonored in the sight of God and man."

"Which, think you, had more weight when placed in the scales of eternal justice, Herod's rash vow, or the life of the holy prophet sacrificed to fulfil it? O Ernest!—wild, impulsive words forced from the lips of passion should never be made guides of action. It is wrong, I know, to speak unwisely and madly, but doubly, trebly wrong to act so."

As thus I pleaded and reasoned and entreated, I kept my earnest gaze on his face, and eagerly watched,—watched with trembling hope and fear the effect of my words. I had drawn back from him as far as the width of the library, and my hands were clasped together and pressed upon my bosom. I did not know that I stood directly beneath the picture of the Italian flower-girl, till I saw his glance uplifted from my face to hers, with an expression that recalled the morning when he found me gazing on her features, in all the glow of youth, love, joy, and hope. Then I remembered how he had scattered my rose leaves beneath his feet, and what a prophetic sadness had then shaded my spirits.

"Alas! my poor Gabriella," he cried, looking down from the picture to me, with an expression of the tenderest compassion; "Alas, my flower-girl! how have I wilted your blooming youth! You are pale, my girl, and sad,—that bewitching smile no longer parts your glowing lips. Would to God I had never crossed your path of roses with my withering footsteps! Would to God I had never linked your young, confiding heart to mine, so blasted by suspicion, so consumed by jealousy's baleful fires! Yet, Heaven knows I meant to make you happy. I meant to watch over you as tenderly as the mother over her new-born infant,—as holily as the devotee over the shrine of the saint he adores. How faithless I have been to this guardianship of love, you know too well. I have been a madman, a monster,—you know I have,—worthy of eternal detestation. But you have not suffered alone. Remorse—unquenchable fire; remorse—undying worm, avenges every pang I have inflicted on you. Remorse goaded me to desperation,—desperation prompted the expiatory vow. It must be fulfilled, or I shall forfeit my self-respect, my honor, and truth. But I shall be better, stronger,—I feel I shall, after passing this stern ordeal. It will soon be over, and I have a confidence so firm that it has the strength of conviction, that in this lonely conflict with the powers of darkness I shall come off conqueror, through God's assisting angels."

He spoke with fervor, and his countenance lighted up with enthusiasm. Bodily weakness and languor had disappeared, and his transparent cheek glowed with the excitement of his feelings.

"If you are really thus supported by divine enthusiasm," I said, with an involuntary kindling of admiration, "perhaps I ought to submit in silence, where I cannot understand. Forgive me before I leave you, Ernest, this rash intrusion. We may forgive even our enemies."

"Forgive, Gabriella! Oh! if you knew the flood of joy and rapture that for one moment deluged my soul! I dare not recall it. Forgive, O my God!"

He turned away, covered his face with his left hand, and made a repelling gesture with the other. I understood the motion, and obeyed it.

"Farewell, Ernest," said I, slowly retreating; "may angels minister to you and bear up your spirit on their wings of love!"

I looked back, on the threshold, and met his glance then turned towards me. Had I been one of the angels I invoked, it could not have been more adoring.

And thus we parted; and when I attempted to describe the interview to his mother, I wept and sobbed as if I had been paying a visit to his grave. And yet I was glad that I had been, glad that I had bridged the gulf that separated us, though but momentarily.

Perhaps some may smile at this record. I have no doubt they will, and pronounce the character of Ernest unnatural and impossible. But in all his idiosyncrasy, he is the Ernest Linwood of Grandison Place, just such as I have delineated him, just such as I knew and loved. I know that there are scenes that have seemed, that will seem, overwrought, and I have often been tempted to throw down the pen, regretting the task I have undertaken. But, were we permitted to steal behind the scenes of many a life drama, what startling discoveries would we make! Reality goes beyond the wildest imaginings of romance,—beyond the majestic sweep of human genius. Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination conceived, the wild extent to which the passions of man may go. The empire of passion is veiled, and its battle ground is secret Who beheld the interview in the library, which I have just described? Who saw him kneeling at his mother's feet at the midnight hour? Or who witnessed our scenes of agony and reconciliation in the palace walls of our winter home? Ah! the world sees only the surface of the great deep of the heart. It has never plunged into the innermost main,—never beheld the seething and the rolling of the unfathomable mystery:—

"And where is the diver so stout to go,— I ask ye again—to the deep below?"

Well do I remember the thrilling legend of the roaring whirlpools, the golden goblet, and the dauntless diver, and well do I read its meaning.

O Ernest! I have cast the golden goblet of happiness into a maelstrom, and he alone, who walked unsinking the waves of Galilee, can bring back the lost treasure from the dark and boiling vortex.



CHAPTER XLIX.

Julian was worthy of Edith. His parentage was honorable and pure, his connections irreproachable, and his own character noble and unblemished. Reason could oppose no obstacle, and the young artist was received into the family as the betrothed of the lovely lame girl.

The romantic idea which had suggested itself to my mind, that he might be the son of Theresa and my own half-brother, had vanished before the testimonies of his birth. Another daydream too. I had always looked forward to the hour when Richard would transfer his affections to Edith, and be rewarded by her love for his youthful disappointment. But she was destined to reign in undivided sovereignty over a heart that had never been devoted to another; to be loved with all the fervor of passion and all the enthusiasm of genius.

It was the day of social gathering at Dr. Harlowe's; but I remained at home. I felt as if I could not be missed from the circle in which Madge, in bridal charms, sparkled a ruby gem, and the fairer Edith shone, a living pearl. Though scarcely one year a wife, the discipline of my wedded experience had so chastened and subdued me, I seemed to myself quite a matron, beside those on whom the morning glow of love and hope were beaming. Madge and Edith were both older than myself, and yet I had begun to live far earlier.