I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something dejected in his attitude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned his forehead against the window sash.

I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked.

He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of his shoulder, and knew that he heard me.

"What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?"

"I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry, but grieved, wounded, and unhappy."

"And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?"

"Gabriella, you mock me!" he exclaimed, suddenly rising and speaking in a low, stern voice. "You know that you are yourself the cause of my grief, and your words are as hollow as your actions are vain. Did you not promise, solemnly promise never to deceive me again, after having caused me such agony by the deception I yet freely forgave?"

"Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived? If I know myself, every word and action has been as clear and open as noonday."

"Did you ever tell me your teacher was your lover,—he with whom you were so intimately associated when I first knew you? You suffered me to believe that he was to you in the relation almost of a father. I received him as such in my own home. I lavished upon him every hospitable attention, as the friend and guide of your youth, and now you suffer me to hear from others that his romantic love was the theme of village gossip, that your names are still associated by idle tongues."

"I always believed before that unrequited love was not a theme for vain boasting, that it was a secret too sacred to be divulged even to the dearest and the nearest."

"But every one who has been so unfortunate as to be associated with you, seems to have been the victims of unrequited love. The name of Richard Clyde is familiar to all as the model of despairing lovers, and even Dr. Harlowe addresses you in a strain of unpardonable levity."

"O Ernest, cannot you spare even him?"

"You asked me the cause of my displeasure, and I have told you the source of my grief, otherwise I had been silent. There must be something wrong, Gabriella, or you would not be the subject of such remarks. Edith, all lovely as she is, passes on without exciting them. The most distant allusion to a lover should be considered an insult by a wedded woman and most especially in her husband's presence."

"I have never sought admiration or love," said I, every feeling of delicacy and pride rising to repel an insinuation so unjust. "When they have been mine, they were spontaneous gifts, offered nobly, and if not accepted, at least declined with gratitude and sensibility. If I have been so unfortunate as to win what your lovely sister might more justly claim, it has been by the exercise of no base allurement or meritricious attractions. I appeal to your own experience, and if it does not acquit me, I am for ever silent."

Coldly and proudly my eye met his, as we stood face to face in the light of the midnight moon. I, who had looked up to him with the reverence due to a superior being, felt that I was above him now. He was the slave of an unjust passion, the dupe of a distempered fancy, and as such unworthy of my respect and love. As I admitted this truth, I shuddered with that vague horror we feel in dreams, when we recoil from the brink of something, we know not what. I trembled when his lips opened, fearful he would say something more irrational and unmanly still.

"O Ernest!" I cried, all at once yielding to the emotions that were bearing me down with such irresistible power, "you frighten me, you fill me with unspeakable dread. There seems a deep abyss yawning between us, and I stand upon one icy brink and you on the other, and the chasm widens, and I stretch out my arms in vain to reach you, and I call, and nothing but a dreary echo answers, and I look into my heart and do not find you there. Save me, Ernest, save me,—my husband, save yourself from a doom so dreadful!"

Excited by the awful picture of desolation I had drawn, I slid down upon my knees and raised my clasped hands, as if pleading for life beneath the axe of the executioner. I must have been the very personification of despair, with my hair wildly sweeping round me, and hands locked in agony.

"To live on, live on together, year after year, cold and estranged, without love, without hope,"—I continued, unable to check the words that came now as in a rushing tide,—"Oh! is it not dreadful, Ernest, even to think of? There is no evil I could not bear while we loved one another. If poverty came,—welcome, welcome. I could toil and smile, if I only toiled for you, if I were only trusted, only believed. There is no sacrifice I would not make to prove my faith. Do you demand my right hand?—cut it off; my right eye?—pluck it out;—I withhold nothing. I would even lay my heart bleeding at your feet in attestation of my truth. But what can I do, when the idle breath of others, over which I have no power, shakes the tottering fabric of your confidence, and I am buried beneath the ruins?"

"You have never loved like me, Gabriella, or you would never dream of the possibility of its being extinguished," said he, in a tone of indescribable wretchedness. "I may alienate you from me, by the indulgence of insane passions, by accusations repented as soon as uttered,—I may revile and persecute,—but I can never cease to love you."

"O Ernest!" It was all gone,—pride, anger, despair, were gone. The first glance of returning love,—the first acknowledgment of uttered wrong, were enough for me. I was in his arms, next to his heart, and the last hours seemed a dream of darkness. I was happy again; but I trembled even in the joy of reconciliation. I realized on what a slender thread my wedded happiness was hanging, and knew that it must one day break. Moments like these were like those green and glowing spots found on the volcano's burning edge. The lava of passion might sweep over them quick as the lightning's flash, and beauty and bloom be covered with ashes and desolation.

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 TherÉsa 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.