Ernest Linwood Part 12

"A very fine, promising young man," said Mrs. Linwood, with emphasis.

"A most intelligent, agreeable companion," added the gentle Edith, looking smilingly at me, as if expecting me to say something.

"Very," responded I, in a constrained manner.

"Is that all?" she asked, laying her soft, white hand on my shoulders, and looking archly in my face; "is that all, Gabriella?"

"Indeed, you are mistaken," said I, hastily; "he is nothing more,--and yet I am wrong to say that,--he has been,--he is like a brother to me, Edith, and never will be any thing more."

"Oh, these brother friends!" she exclaimed, with a burst of musical laughter, "how very near they seem! But wait, Gabriella, till you see _my_ brother,--he is one to boast of."

"Edith!" said her mother. Edith turned her blue eyes from me to her mother, with a look of innocent surprise. The tone seemed intended to check her,--yet what had she said?

"You should not raise expectations in Gabriella which will not be realized," observed Mrs. Linwood, in that quiet tone of hers which had so much power. "Ernest, however dear he may be to us as a son and brother, has peculiar traits which sometimes repel the admiration of strangers. His impenetrable reserve chills the warmth of enthusiasm, while the fitfulness of his morals produces constant inquietude. He was born under a clouded star, and the horoscope of his destiny is darkened by its influence."

"I love him better for his lights and shadows," said Edith, "he keeps one always thinking of him."

"When would this shadowy, flashing being appear, who kept one always thinking of him?"

CHAPTER XV.

As I had made an engagement with Mr. Regulus for one year, I remained with Dr. Harlowe's family during the winter months, while Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned to the city.

The only novelty of that wintry season was the first correspondence of my life. Could any thing prove more strikingly my isolated position in the world than this single fact? It was quite an era in my existence when I received Mrs. Linwood's and Edith's first letters; and when I answered them, it seemed to me my heart was flowing out in a gushing stream of expression, that had long sought vent. I knew they must have smiled at my exuberance of language, for the young enthusiast always luxuriates under epistolary influences. I had another correspondent, a very unexpected one, Richard Clyde, who, sanctioned by Mrs. Linwood, begged permission to write to me as a _friend_. How could I refuse, when Mrs. Linwood said it would be a source of intellectual improvement as well as pleasure? These letters occupied much of my leisure time, and were escape-pipes to an imagination of the high-pressure kind. My old love of rhyming, too, rose from the ashes of former humiliation, and I wove many a garland of poesy, though no one but myself inhaled their fragrance or admired their bloom.

"As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,--"

So in the solitude of my chamber, in the loneliness of my heart, in the breathing stillness of the night, blossomed the moon-born flowers of poesy, to beautify and gladden my youth.

Thus glided away the last tranquil season of my life. As was one day, so was the next. Mrs. Harlowe's clock-work virtues, which never run down, the doctor's agreeable carelessness and imperturbable good-humor, the exceeding kindness of Mr. Regulus, who grew so gentle, that he almost seemed melancholy,--all continued the same. In reading, writing, thinking, feeling, hoping, reaching forward to an uncertain future, the season of fireside enjoyments and comforts pa.s.sed,--spring,--summer.

Mrs. Linwood and Edith returned, and I was once more installed in that charming apartment, amid whose rosy decorations "I seemed," as Edith said, "a fairy queen." I walked once more in the moon-lighted colonnade, in the shadow of the granite walls, and felt that I was born to be there.

One evening as I returned home, I saw Edith coming through the lawn to meet me, so rapidly that she seemed borne on wings,--her white drapery fell in such full folds over her crutches it entirely concealed them, and they made no sound on the soft, thick gra.s.s. Her face was perfectly radiant.

"Oh, Gabriella," she exclaimed, "he is coming,--brother is coming home,--he will be here in less than a week,--oh! I am so happy!"

And the sweet, affectionate creature leaned her head on my shoulder, and actually sobbed in the fulness of her joy. My own heart palpitated with strange emotions, with mingled curiosity, eagerness, and dread.

"Dear Edith," I cried, putting my arms around her, and kissing her fair, infantine cheek, "I rejoice with you,--I could envy you if I dared. What a blessing it must be to have a brother capable of inspiring so much love!"

"He shall be your brother too, Gabriella! For, are you not my sister?

and of course he must be your brother. Come, let us sit down under the dear old elm and talk about him, for my heart is so full that I can speak and think of nothing else."

"And now," added she, as we sat under the kingly canopy of verdure,--on a carpet of living velvet,--"let me tell you why I love Ernest so very, very dearly. My father died when I was a little child, a little feeble child, a cripple as well as an invalid. Ernest is four years older than myself, and though when I was a little child he was but a very young boy, he always seemed a protector and guardian to me. He never cared about play like other children, loving his book better than any thing else, but willing to leave even that to amuse and gratify me. Oh! I used to suffer so much, so dreadfully,--I could not lie down, I could not sit up without pain,--no medicine would give me any relief. Hour after hour would Ernest hold me in his arms, and carry me about in the open air, never owning he was weary while he could give me one moment's ease. No one thought I would live beyond childhood, and I have no doubt many believed that death would be a blessing to the poor, crippled child.

They did not know how dear life was to me in spite of all my sufferings; for had I always been well, I never should have known those tender, cherishing cares which have filled my heart with so much love. It is so sweet to be petted and caressed as I have been!"

"It did not need sickness and suffering to make _you_ beloved, Edith," I cried, twisting my fingers in her soft, golden curls. "Who could help loving you and wishing to caress you?"

"Yes it did, Gabriella; my Heavenly Father knew that it did, or He would never have laid upon me His chastening hand. Sickness and pain have been my only chastis.e.m.e.nts, and they are all past. I am not very strong, but I am well; and though a cripple, my wooden feet serve me wonderfully well. I am so used to them now, they seem a part of myself."

"I can never think of you as walking," I said, taking one of the crutches that leaned against the tree. The part which fitted under the arm was covered with a cushion of blue velvet, and the rosewood staff was mounted with silver. "You manage these so gracefully, one scarcely misses your feet."

"But Ernest, dear Ernest," interrupted she, "let us talk of him. You must not be influenced too much by my mother's words. She adores him, but her standard of perfection is so exalted few can attain it. The very excess of her love makes her alive to his defects. She knows your vivid imagination, and fears my lavish praises will lead you to expect a being of super-human excellence. Oh, another thing I wanted to tell you. The uncle, for whom he was named, has died and left him a splendid fortune, which he did not need very much, you know. Had it not been for this circ.u.mstance, he would not have come back till autumn; and now he will be here in a week,--in less than a week. Oh, Gabriella, Grandison Place must shine for its master's welcome."

Another splendid fortune added to his own! Further and further still, seemed he removed from me. But what difference did it make? Why did I think of him in reference to myself? How dared I do it, foolish and presumptuous girl! Then, he was seven years older than myself. How mature! He would probably look upon me as a little girl; and if he granted me the honors of womanhood, the student of Gottingen, the heir of two great fortunes would scarcely notice the village teacher, save as the orphan protegee of his mother.

I did not indulge these thoughts. I repelled them, for they were selfish and uncomfortable. If every one recorded their thoughts as I do, would they not, like me, pray for the blotting angel's tears?

In one week! How soon!

Mrs. Linwood, quiet and serene as she was, partic.i.p.ated in Edith's joyful excitement. She departed from her usual reliance on the subject, and checked not Edith's glowing warmth.

In a family so wealthy, a dwelling so abounding in all the elegancies and luxuries of life, the coming of a prince would not have occasioned any necessary disturbance. The chamber of the son and brother had been long prepared, but now the fastidious eye of affection discovered many deficiencies. The pictures must be changed in position; some wanted more, some less light; the curtains were too heavy, the flower vases too gorgeous.

"Does he mind these things much?" I ventured to ask.

"He likes to see every thing round him elegant and cla.s.sic," replied Edith; "he has the most fastidious taste in the world. I am so glad, Gabriella, that you are pretty, that you are really cla.s.sically beautiful, for he will think so much more of you for being so. He ought not, perhaps; but one cannot help having a fine taste. He cannot abide any thing coa.r.s.e or unrefined."

"He will not think of me at all, I am sure he will not," I answered, while a vivid blush of pleasure at her sweet flattery stole over my cheek.

CHAPTER XVI.

It was my office to gather and arrange the flowers, to adorn the mansion, in consequence of Edith's lameness. This I did every morning while they were sparkling with dew and the fragrance of night still imprisoned in their folded petals. I delighted in the task; but now I could not help feeling unusual solicitude about my floral mission. I rose earlier than usual, and made fearful havoc in the garden and the green-house. My ap.r.o.n dripped with blossoms every step I took, and the carpet was literally strewed with flowers. The fairest and sweetest were selected for the room _not yet occupied_; and though one day after another pa.s.sed away and he came not, the scent of the blossoms lingered in the apartment, and diffusing in it an atmosphere of home love, prepared it for the wanderer's return.

Every afternoon the carriage was sent to the depot, which was several miles from Grandison Place, to meet the traveller, and again and again it returned empty.

"Let us go ourselves," said Mrs. Linwood, beginning to be restless and anxious. And they went--she and Edith. Though it was Sat.u.r.day and I was free, I did not accompany them, for I felt that a stranger to him should not "intermeddle with their joy."

Partaking of the restlessness of baffled expectation, I could not fix my mind on any occupation. I seated myself in the window recess and began to read, but my eyes were constantly wandering to the road, watching for the dust cloud that would roll before the advancing carriage.

Dissatisfied with myself, I strolled out on the lawn, and seating myself on the rustic bench with my back to the gate, resolutely fastened my eyes to the pages I had been vainly fluttering.

Shall I tell how foolish I had been? Though I said to myself a hundred times, "he will not look at me, or notice me at all," I had taken unusual pains with my dress, which though still characterized with the simplicity of mourning, was relieved of its severity of outline. A fall of lace softened the bands of the neck and arms, which were embellished by a necklace and bracelets, which I valued more than any earthly possession. They were the gift of Mrs. Linwood, who, having won from the grave a portion of my mother's beautiful dark hair, had it wrought with exquisite skill, and set in ma.s.sy gold, as memorials of love stronger than death. Thus doubly precious, I cherished them as holy amulets, made sacred by the living as well as the dead. Edith had woven in my hair some scarlet geraniums, my favorite flower. Though not very elaborately adorned, I had an impression I was looking my best, and I could not help thinking while I sat half veiled by foliage, half gilded by light, how romantic it would be, if a magnificent stranger should suddenly approach and as suddenly draw back, on seeing my dark, waving hair, instead of the golden locks of Edith. I became so absorbed in painting this little scene, which enlarged and glowed under the pencil of imagination, that I did not hear the opening of the gate or footsteps crossing the lawn. I thought a shadow pa.s.sed over the sunshine. The figure of a stranger stood between me and the glowing west. I started up with an irrepressible exclamation. I knew, at the first glance, that it was Ernest Linwood, the living embodiment of that haunting image, so long drawn on my youthful fancy. I should have known him in the farthest isles of the ocean, from the painting in the library, the descriptions of Edith, and the sketches of my own imagination. His complexion had the pale, transparent darkness of eastern climes, and his eye a kind of shadowy splendor, impossible to describe, but which reminded me at once of his mother's similitude of the "clouded star." He was not above the common height of man, yet he gave me an impression of power and dignity, such as mere physical force could never inspire.

"Is this Grandison Place? my home?" he asked, lifting his hat with gentlemanly grace from his brows. His voice, too, had that cultivated, well-modulated tone, which always marks the gentleman.

"It is, sir," I answered, trying to speak without embarra.s.sment. "Mr.

Linwood, I presume."

I thought I had made a mistake in his name, it sounded so strange. I had never heard him called any thing but Ernest Linwood, and Mr. Linwood had such a stiff, formal sound, I was quite disgusted with it.

He again bowed, and looked impatiently towards the house.