CHAPTER XLVIII.

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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.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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