Ernest Linwood Part 29

"Indeed! I thought you came to inquire after my health, and was feeling _so_ grateful!"

"I did not know I should have the pleasure of seeing _you_, and I did not hope you would welcome me with so much cordiality. I have made many inquiries after you; indeed, I have scarcely thought of any thing else since you were ill. You look pale, Gabriella. Are you sure you are quite well, my child?"

The old endearing epithet! It touched me.

"I do not feel strong enough to move Mount Atlas, but well enough to enjoy the society of my friends. I never appreciated it so highly before."

"You have no idea how I miss you," he said, taking my fan and drawing his thumb over it, as if he were feeling the edge of his ferula. "The season of summer lingers, but the flowers no longer bloom for me. The birds sing, but their notes have lost their melody. My perception of the beautiful has grown dim, but the remembrance of it can never fade. I never knew before what the pleasures of memory truly were."

"I recollect a copy you once set me, Mr. Regulus,--'Sweet is the memory of absent friends,'--I thought it such a charming one!"

"Do you remember that?" he asked, with a delighted countenance.

"Yes! I remember all the copies you ever set me. Teachers should be very careful what sentiments they write, for they are never forgotten. Don't you recollect how all the pupils once laughed at a mistake in punctuation of mine? The copy was, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor.' As the line was not quite filled, you added _Gabriella_, after making a full period. I forgot the stop and wrote, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor Gabriella.' The ridicule of the scholars taught me the importance of punctuation. Our mistakes are our best lessons, after all."

"And do you remember these trifles?" he repeated. "How strange! It shows you have the heart of a child still. I love to hear you recall them."

"I could fill a volume with these reminiscences. I believe I will write one, one of these days, and you shall be the hero."

A merry altercation at the door attracted our attention. Dr. Harlowe was endeavoring to persuade Madge to go back with him, but she strenuously refused.

"I never could stay more than ten days at a time in one place in my life. Besides, I have worn out my welcome, I know I have. Your house is not new. It jars too much when I walk. I saw Mrs. Harlowe looking ruefully at some cracked gla.s.s and china, and then at me, as much as to say, 'It is all your doings, you young romp.'"

"Very likely," cried the doctor, laughing heartily, "but it only makes me more anxious to secure you. You are a safety-valve in the house. All my misdemeanors escape unreproved in the presence of your superior recklessness."

I never saw any one enjoy a jest more than Dr. Harlowe. He really liked the dashing and untamable Madge. He was fond of young companions; and though his wife was such a _superior woman_, and such an incomparable housekeeper, there was nothing very exhilarating about her.

"I can't go," said Madge; "I must stay and take care of Gabriella."

"If you play any of your wild pranks on her again," said the doctor, "it were better for you that you had never been born."

With this threat he departed; and it seemed as if a dozen people had been added to the household in the person of the dauntless Meg. I never saw any one with such a flow of animal spirits, with so much oxygen in their composition. I should think the vital principle in such a const.i.tution would burn out sooner than in others, like a flame fed by alcohol. She was older than myself, and yet had no more apparent reflection than a child of five years old. It was impossible to make her angry. The gravest rebuke, the most cutting sarcasm, were received with a merry twinkle of the eye or a rich swell of laughter. She was bold, masculine, wild, and free, and I feared her as much as I would the wild-cat, after whom the doctor had christened her,--yet there was something about her that I liked. It was probably the interest she professed in me, which must have been genuine. It was impossible for her to affect any thing.

Who would dream of any one sporting with such a man as Mr. Regulus? Yet she treated him exactly as if he were a great boy. He had paid us his parting salutations, and was half-way down the steps before she was aware of his intended departure.

"You are not going so soon, indeed you are not," she exclaimed, running after him, seizing his hat, and setting it jauntily on her own head. Her abundant hair prevented it from falling over her face. "I brought you here to stay all the evening; and stay you must and shall. What do you want to go back to your musty old bachelor's room for, when there is such delightful company here?"

Taking hold of his arm and whirling him briskly round, she led him back into the parlor, laughing and triumphant.

She looked so saucy, so jaunty, so full of nerve and adventure, with the large hat pitched on one side of her head, I could not help saying,--

"What a pity she were not a man!"

Mr. Regulus did not appear as awkward as might be supposed. There was a latent spark of fun and frolic in his large brain, to which her wild hand applied the match; and though I know he felt the disappointment of his affections sorely, deeply, he yielded himself to her a.s.sault with tolerable grace and readiness.

Supper was always an unceremonious meal, sent round on waiters, from a round table in the back parlor, at which Mrs. Linwood presided.

Gentlemen took their cups standing or walking, just as it happened; and ladies, too, though they were generally seated. Ernest drew a light table to the lounge where I sat; and sitting by me, said, as I was an invalid, I should be peculiarly favored.

"Methinks she is not the only favored one," said the sweet voice of Edith, as she floated near.

"There is room for you, dear Edith," said I, moving closer to the arm of the sofa, and leaving a s.p.a.ce for her between us.

"Room on the sofa, Edith," added he, moving towards me, and making a s.p.a.ce for her on his right, "and tenfold room in my heart."

He took her hand and drew her down to his side.

"This is as it should be," he said, looking from one to the other with a radiant countenance. "Thus would I ever bind to my heart the two loveliest, dearest, best."

Edith bent her head, and kissed the hand which held hers. As she looked up I saw that her eyes were glistening.

"What would mamma say?" she asked, trying to conceal her emotion.

"Surely there can be none dearer and better than she is."

"Nay, Edith," said he, pa.s.sing his arm tenderly round her waist; "you might as well say, if I singled out two bright, especial stars from the firmament, that I did not think the moon fair or excellent. The love I bear my mother is so exalted by reverence, it stands apart by itself like the queen of night, serene and holy, moving in a distinct and lofty sphere. There is one glory of the sun, Edith, and another glory of the moon, and one star differeth from another in glory. Yet they are all glorious in themselves, and all proclaim the goodness and glory of the Creator."

"I have heard it said," observed Edith, in a low, tremulous tone, "that when love takes possession of the heart, the natural affections have comparatively little strength; that it is to them as is the ocean to its tributaries. I know nothing of it by experience, nor do I wish to, if it has power to diminish the filial and sisterly tenderness which const.i.tutes my chief joy."

"My dear Edith, it is not so. Every pure and generous affection expands the heart, and gives it new capacities for loving. Have you not heard of heaven,--'the more angels the more room?' So it is with the human heart.

It is elastic, and enlarges with every lawful claimant to be admitted into its sanctuary. It is true there is a love which admits of no rivalry;" here his eye turned involuntarily to me, "which enshrines but one object, which dwells in the inner temple, the angel of angels. But other affections do not become weaker in consequence of its strength. We may not see the fire-flame burn as brightly when the sun shines upon it, but the flame is burning still."

"Gabriella does not speak," said Edith, with an incredulous wave of her golden locks. "Tell me, Gabriella, are his words true?"

"I am not a very good metaphysician," I answered, "but I should think the heart very narrow, that could accommodate only those whom Nature placed in it. It seems to me but a refined species of selfishness."

The color crimsoned on Edith's fair cheek. I had forgotten what she had said to me of her own exclusive affection. I sympathized so entirely in his sentiments, expressed with such beautiful enthusiasm, I forgot every thing else. The moment I had spoken, memory rebuked my transient oblivion. She must believe it an intentional sarcasm. How could I be so careless of the feelings of one so gentle and so kind?

"I know _I_ am selfish," she said. "I have told you my weakness,--sin it may be,--and I deserve the reproach."

"You cannot think I meant it as such. You know I could not. I had forgotten what I have heard you previously utter. I was thinking only of the present. Forgive me, Edith, for being so thoughtless and impulsive; for being so selfish myself."

"I am wrong," said Edith, ingenuously. "I suppose conscience applied the words. Brother, you, who are the cause of the offence, must make my peace."

"It is already made," answered I, holding out my hand to meet hers; "if you acquit me of intentional wrong, I ask no more."

As our hands united before him, he clasped them both in one of his own.

"A triune band," said he, earnestly, "that never must be broken. Edith, Gabriella, remember this. Love each other now, love each other forever, even as I love ye both."

I was sensitive and childish from recent indisposition, or I should have had more self-control. I could not prevent the tears from rushing to my eyes and stealing down my cheeks. As we were sitting by ourselves, in a part of the room less brilliantly lighted than the rest, and as we all conversed in a low voice, this little scene was not conspicuous, though it might have possibly been observed.

Those in the front room seemed exceedingly merry. Madge had placed a table before herself and Mr. Regulus, in imitation of Ernest, and had piled his plate with quant.i.ties of cake, as high as a pyramid. A gay group surrounded the table, that seemed floating on a tide of laughter; or rather making an eddy, in 'which their spirits were whirling.'

As soon as supper was over, she told Mr. Regulus to lead her to the piano, as she was literally dying to play. There was no instrument at Dr. Harlowe's but a jew's-harp, and the tongue of that was broken. As she seated herself at the piano, Mr. Regulus reached forward and took up a violin which was lying upon it.

"Do you play?" she asked eagerly.

"I used to play a good deal when a boy, but that was a long time ago,"

he answered, drawing the bow across the strings with no unskilful hand.