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.