Ernest Linwood Part 57

There were men traversing the vestibule in many directions; and Richard hurried me on, that I might escape the gaze of curiosity or the stare of impertinence. Against one of the pillars which we pa.s.sed, a gentleman was standing, whose figure was so striking as to attract my abstracted eye. I had seen him before. I knew him instantaneously, though I had only had a pa.s.sing glimpse of him the morning we left the Falls. It was the gentleman who had accosted Julian, and who had stamped himself so indelibly on my memory. And now, as I came nearer, I was struck by a resemblance in his air and features to our unhappy father. It is true there was the kind of difference there is between a fallen spirit and an angel of light; for the expression of the stranger's face was n.o.ble and dignified, as if conscious that he still wore undefaced the image of his Maker. He lifted his hat as we pa.s.sed, with that graceful courtesy which marks the gentleman, and I again noticed that the dark waves of his hair were mingled with snow. It reminded me of those wreaths of frost I had seen hanging from the evergreens of Grandison Place.

The singularity of the place, the earnestness of his gaze, and the extraordinary attraction I felt towards him, brought the warm, bright color to my cheeks, and I instinctively dropped the veil which I had raised a moment before. As we entered the carriage, which had been kept in waiting, the horses, high-spirited and impatient, threatened to break loose from the driver's control,--when the stranger, coming rapidly forward, stood at their heads till their transient rebellion was over.

It was but an instant; for as Richard leaned from the carriage window to thank him, the horses dashed forward, and I only caught one more glimpse of his fine, though pensive features.

"Richard, did you not perceive a resemblance to our father in this gentleman, n.o.ble and distinguished as he appears? I was struck with it at the first glance."

"Yes, there is a likeness; but not greater than we very often see strangers bearing to each other. My father must once have been a fine looking man, though now so sad a wreck. A life of sinful indulgence, followed by remorse and retribution, leaves terrible scars on the face as well as the soul."

"But how strange it is, that we are sometimes so drawn towards strangers, as by a loadstone's power! I saw this gentleman once before, at the Falls of Niagara, and I felt the same sudden attraction that I do now. I may never see him again. It is not probable that I ever shall; but it will be impossible for me to forget him. I feel as if he must have some influence on my destiny; and such a confidence in his n.o.ble qualities, that if I were in danger I would appeal to him for protection, and in sorrow, for sympathy and consolation. You smile, Richard. I dare say it all sounds foolish to you, but it is even so."

"Not foolish, but romantic, my own darling sister. I like such sentiments. I like any thing better than the stereotyped thoughts of the world. You have a right to be romantic, Gabriella, for your life has been one of strange and thrilling interest."

"Yes; strange indeed!" I answered, while my soul rolled back on the billows of the past, wondering at the storms that heaved them so high, when life to many seemed smooth as a sea of gla.s.s. Then I thought how sweet the haven of eternal repose must be to the wave-worn mariner; how much sweeter to one who had had a tempestuous voyage, than one who had been floating on a tranquil current; and the closing verse of an old hymn came melodiously to my recollection:--

"There will I bathe my weary soul In seas of endless rest, And not a wave of trouble roll Across my peaceful breast."

CHAPTER LV.

What a contrast did the large, airy, pleasant nursery room of Mrs.

Brahan present, to the narrow cell I had so lately quitted! I accompanied her there after dinner, while Richard, anxious to follow up the impression he had made, returned to the prison, taking with him his mother's Bible. I had hardly thought of the communication which he said he wished to make, till I saw Richard depart. Then it recurred to me; but it did not seem possible that it could interest or affect me much, though it might my brother.

I have not spoken of Mrs. Brahan's children, because I have had so much to say of others; but she had children, and very lovely ones, who were the crowning blessings of her home. Her eldest were at school, but there were three inmates of the nursery, from five to ten years of age, adorned with the sweetest charms of childhood, brightness, purity, and bloom. She called them playfully her three little graces; and I never admired her so much, as when she made herself a child in their midst, and partic.i.p.ated in their innocent amus.e.m.e.nts. After supper they were brought into the parlor to be companions of their father one hour, which he devoted exclusively to their instruction and recreation; but after dinner Mrs. Brahan took the place of the nurse, or rather governess, and I felt it a privilege to be with her, it made me feel so entirely at home, and the presence of childhood freshened and enlivened the spirits.

It seemed as if fairy fingers were scattering rose-leaves on my heart.

Was it possible that these young, innocent creatures would ever become hardened by worldliness, polluted by sin, or saddened by sorrow? And yet the doomed dweller of the Tombs had said that morning, "that he was once a praying child at his mother's knee!" How would that mother have felt, if, when his innocent hands were folded on her lap and his cherub lips repeated words which perhaps angels interpreted, she could have looked into future years, and beheld the condemned and blasted being in whose withering veins her own lifeblood was flowing?

While I was reclining on the children's bed and the youngest little girl was playing with my ringlets, as short and childish as her own, I was told a gentleman was in the parlor, who inquired for me.

"Cannot I excuse myself?" I asked of Mrs. Brahan. "I did not wish any one to know that I was in the city. I did not wish to meet any of my former acquaintances."

Then it suddenly flashed into my mind, that it might be some one who brought tidings of Ernest, some one who had met the "Star of the East,"

on his homeward voyage. There was nothing wild in the idea, and when I mentioned it to Mrs. Brahan, she said it was possible, and that I had better go down. Supposing it was a messenger of evil! I felt as if I had borne all I could bear, and live. Then all at once I thought of the stranger whom I had seen in the vestibule of the prison, and I was sure it was he. But who was he, and why had he come? I was obliged to stop at the door, to command my agitation, so nervous had I been made by the shock from which I had not yet recovered. My cheeks burned, but my hands were cold as ice.

Yes, it was he. The moment I opened the door, I recognized him, the stately stranger of the Tombs. He was standing in front of the beautiful painting of the fortress, and his face was from me. But he turned at my entrance, and advanced eagerly to meet me. He was excessively pale, and varying emotions swept over his countenance, like clouds drifted by a stormy wind. Taking both my hands in his, he drew me towards him, with a movement I had no power to resist, and looked in my face with eyes in which every pa.s.sion of the soul seemed concentrated, but in which joy like a sun-ray shone triumphant.

Even before he opened his arms and clasped me to his bosom, I felt an invisible power drawing me to his heart, and telling me I had a right to be there.

"Gabriella! child of my Rosalie! my own lost darling!" he exclaimed, in broken accents, folding me closer and closer in his arms, as if fearing I would vanish from his embrace. "Gracious G.o.d! I thank thee,--Heavenly Father! I bless thee for this hour. After long years of mourning, and bereavement, and loneliness, to find a treasure so dear, to feel a joy so holy! Oh, my G.o.d, what shall I render unto Thee for all thy benefits!"

Then he bowed his head on my neck, and I felt hot tears gushing from his eyes, and sobs, like the deep, pa.s.sionate sobs of childhood, convulsing his breast.

Yes, he _was_ my father. I knew it,--I felt it, as if the voice of G.o.d had spoken from the clouds of heaven to proclaim it. He was my father, the beloved of my angelic mother, and he had never wronged her, never.

He had not been the deceiver, but the deceived. Without a word of explanation I believed this, for it was written as if in sunbeams on his n.o.ble brow. The dreams of my childhood were all embodied in him; and overpowered by reverence, love, grat.i.tude, and joy, I slid from his arms, and on bended knees and with clasped hands, looked up in his face and repeated again and again the sacred name of "Father."

It is impossible to describe such bewildering, such intense emotions.

Seldom, except in dreams, are they felt, when the spirit seems free from the fetters of earth. Even when I found myself sitting by his side, still encircled in his arms and leaning on his heart, I could scarcely convince myself that the scene was real.

"And Richard, my brother!" I cried, beginning to feel bewildered at the mysteries that were to be unravelled; "joy is not perfect till he shares it with me."

"Will it make you unhappy, my darling Gabriella, to know that Richard is your cousin, instead of your brother?"

I pressed my hands on my forehead, for it ached with the quick, lightning-like thoughts that flashed through my brain.

"And he, the inmate of yon dismal cell?" I exclaimed, antic.i.p.ating, as if by intuition, the reply,--

"Is my brother, my twin brother, whom in youth our mother could not distinguish from myself. This fatal resemblance has caused all my woe.

Theresa la Fontaine was _his_ wife and Richard is _his_ son, not mine."

How simple, how natural, all this seemed! Why had not my mother dreamed of the possibility of such a thing! Knowing the existence of this brother, why had she not at once found in him the solution of the dark problem, which was the enigma as well as anguish of her life?

"My unhappy brother!" said he, while a dark shade rested on his brow; "little did I think, when I visited his dungeon this morning, of the revelation he would make! I have been an exile and a wanderer many years, or I might perhaps have learned sooner what a blessing Heaven has been guarding for my sad and lonely heart. I saw you as you pa.s.sed out of the prison, and your resemblance to my beloved Rosalie struck me, as an electric shock."

"And yours to him whom I believed my father, had the same effect on me.

How strange it was, that then I felt as if I would give worlds to call _you_ father, instead of the wretched being I had just quitted."

"Then you are willing to acknowledge me, my beloved, my lovely daughter," said he, pressing a father's kiss on my forehead, from which his hand fondly put back the cl.u.s.tering locks. "My daughter! let me repeat the name. My daughter! how sweet, how holy it sounds! Had _she_ lived, or had she only known before she died, the constancy and purity of my love; but forgive me, thou Almighty chastener of man's erring heart! I dare not murmur. She knows all this now. She has given me her divine forgiveness."

"She left it with me, father, to give you; not only her forgiveness, but her undying love, and her dying blessing."

Withdrawing the arm with which he still embraced me, he bowed his face on his hands, and I hardly dared to breathe lest I should disturb the sacredness of his emotions. "She knows all this now." My heart repeated the words. Methought the wings of her spirit were hovering round us,--her husband and her child,--whom the hand of G.o.d had brought together after years of alienation and sorrow. And other thoughts pressed down upon me. By and by, when we were all united in that world, where we should know even as we are known, Ernest would read my heart, by the light of eternity, and then he would know how I loved him. There would be no more suspicion, or jealousy, or estrangement, but perfect love and perfect joy would absorb the memory of sorrow.

"And you are married, my Gabriella?" were the first words my father said, when he again turned towards me. "How difficult to realize; and you looking so very young. Young as you really are, you cheat the eye of several years of youth!"

"I was very ill, and when I woke to consciousness, I found myself shorn of the glory of womanhood,--my long hair."

"You are so like my Rosalie. Your face, your eyes, your smile; and I feel that you have her pure and loving heart. Heaven preserve it from the blight that fell on hers!"

The smile faded from my lip, and a quick sigh that I could not repress saddened its expression. The eyes of my father were bent anxiously on me.

"I long to see the husband of my child," said he. "Is he not with you?"

"No, my father, he is far away. Do not speak of him now, I can only think of you."

"If he is faithless to a charge so dear," exclaimed St. James, with a kindling glance.

"Nay, father; but I have so much to tell, so much to hear, my brain is dizzy with the thought. You shall have all my confidence, believe me you shall; and oh, how sweet it is to think that I have a father's breast to lean upon, a father's arms to shelter me, though the storms of life may blow cold and dreary round me,--and such a father!--after feeling such anguish and shame from my supposed parentage. Poor Richard! how I pity him!"

"You love him, then? Believing him your brother, you have loved him as such?"

"I could not love him better were he indeed my brother. He was the friend of my childhood," and a crimson hue stole over my face at the remembrance of a love more pa.s.sionate than a brother's. "He is gifted with every good and n.o.ble quality, every pure and generous feeling,--friend, brother, cousin--it matters not which--he will ever be the same to me."

Then I spoke of Mrs. Linwood, my adopted mother,--of my incalculable obligations, my unutterable grat.i.tude, love, and admiration,--of the lovely Edith and her sisterly affection, and I told him how I longed that he should see them, and that _they_ should know that I had a father, whom I was proud to acknowledge, instead of one who reflected disgrace even on them.

"Oh! I have so much to tell, so much to hear," I again repeated. "I know not when or where we shall begin. It is so bewildering, so strange, so like a dream. I fear to let go your hand lest you vanish from my sight and I lose you forever."

"Ah, my child, you cannot feel as I do. You have enshrined other images in your heart, but mine is a lonely temple, into which you come as a divinity to be worshipped, as well as a daughter to be loved. I did not expect such implicit faith, such undoubting confidence. I feared you would shrink from a stranger, and require proofs of the truth of his a.s.sertions. I dared not hope for a greeting so tender, a trust so spontaneous."