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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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