Ernest Linwood

R >> r, The Inner Life of the Author >> Ernest Linwood

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They both returned with Richard; and while Mr. Brahan remained with him
below, she came to my chamber, and welcomed me with a warmth and
tenderness that melted, while it cheered.

"You must not stay here one hour longer," said she, pressing one hand in
hers, while she laid the other caressingly on my short, curling hair.
"You must go with me, and feel as much at home as with your own Mrs.
Linwood. I pass a great many lonely hours, while my husband is absent
engaged in business; and it will be a personal favor to me. Indeed, you
must not refuse."

I said something about leaving my brother, while I expressed my
gratitude for her kindness.

"Mr. Brahan will arrange that," she said; "you may be assured he shall
be cared for. You have not unpacked your trunk; and here is your bonnet
and mantilla ready to be resumed. You did not think I would suffer you
to remain among strangers, when my heart has been yearning to meet you
for weary months?"

With gentle earnestness she overcame all my scruples; and it was but a
little time before I found myself established as a guest in the house
where I first beheld the light of existence. How strange it seemed, that
the children of the two betrayed and injured beings who had been made
exiles from that roof, should be received beneath its shelter after the
lapse of so many years!

Mrs. Brahan accompanied me to the chamber prepared for my reception; and
had I been her own daughter she could not have lavished upon me more
affectionate cares. The picture of my mother, which I had returned when
we left the city, was hanging on the wall; and the eyes and lips of
heavenly sweetness seemed to welcome her sad descendant to the home of
her infancy. As I stood gazing upon it with mingled grief and adoration,
Mrs. Brahan encircled me with her arm, and told me she understood now
the history of that picture, and the mystery of its wonderful
resemblance to me. I had not seen her since the notoriety my name had
acquired, in consequence of the diamonds and my father's arrest; and she
knew me now as the daughter of that unhappy man. Did she know the
circumstances of the discovery of my brother, and my husband's flight? I
dared not ask; but I read so much sympathy and compassion in her
countenance, and so much tenderness in her manners, I thought she had
fathomed the depth of my sorrows.

"You look like a girl of fifteen," she said, passing her fingers through
my carelessly waving locks. "Your hair was very beautiful, but I can
scarcely regret its loss."

"I may look more juvenile,--I believe I do, for every one tells me so;
but the youth and bloom of my heart are gone for ever."

"For ever from the lips of the young, and from those more advanced in
life, mean very different things," answered Mrs. Brahan. "I have no
doubt you have happier hours in store, and you will look back to these
as morning shadows melting off in the brightening sunshine."

"Do you know all that has happened, dear Mrs. Brahan, since I left your
city?"

"The rumor of the distressing circumstances which attended the discovery
of your brother reached us even here, and our hearts bled for you. But
all will yet be well. The terrible shock you have sustained will be a
death blow to the passion that has caused you so much misery. Forgive
me, if I make painful allusions; but I cannot suffer you to sink into
the gloom of despondency."

"I try to look upward. I do think the hopes which have no home on earth,
have found rest in heaven."

"But why, my dear young friend, do you close your heart to earthly hope?
Surely, when your husband returns, you may anticipate a joyful reunion."

"When he returns! Alas! his will be a life-long exile. Believing what he
does, he will never, never return."

"But you have written and explained every thing?"

"How can I write,--when I know not where to direct, when I know not to
what region he has wandered, or what resting-place he has found?"

"But Mr. Harland!" said she, with a look of troubled surprise. "You
might learn through him?"

"Mrs. Linwood has written repeatedly to Mr. Harland, and received no
answer. She concluded that he had left the city, but knew not how to
ascertain his address."

"Then you did not know that he had gone to India? I thought,--I
believed,--is it possible that you are not aware"--

"Of what?" I exclaimed, catching hold of her arm, for my brain reeled
and my sight darkened.

"That Mr. Linwood accompanied him," she answered, turning pale at the
agitation her words excited. To India! that distant, deadly clime! To
India, without one farewell, one parting token to her whom he left
apparently on the brink of the grave!

By the unutterable anguish of that moment, I knew the delusion that had
veiled my motives. I had thought it was only to reclaim a lost parent
that I had come, but I found it was the hope of meeting the deluded
wanderer, more than filial piety, that had urged my departure.

"To India!" I cried, and my spirit felt the tossings of the wild billows
that lay rolling between. "Then we are indeed parted,--parted for ever!"

"Why, t'is but a step from ocean to ocean, from clime to clime," she
said in kind, assuring accents. "Men think nothing of such a voyage, for
science has furnished wings which bear them over space with the speed of
an eagle. If you knew not his destination, I should think you would
rejoice rather than mourn, to be relieved of the torture of suspense.
Had I known that you were ignorant of the fact, I should have written
months ago."

"Is it certain that he is gone?" I asked. "Did you see him? Did Mr.
Brahan? How did you learn, what we have vainly sought to know?"

"Mr. Brahan had business with Mr. Harland, and having neglected some
important items, followed him on board the ship in which he embarked. It
was at night, and he remained but a short time; but he caught a glimpse
of your husband, whom he immediately recognized, but who gave him no
opportunity of speaking to him. Knowing he was a friend of Mr.
Harland's, he supposed he had come on board to bid him farewell, though
he was not aware of his being in the city. When we heard the rumor of
the tragic scenes in which he acted so dread a part, and connected it
with the time of Mr. Harland's departure, Mr. Brahan recalled Mr.
Linwood's unexpected appearance in the ship, and the mystery was
explained. But we dreamed not that his departure was unknown to you. If
you had only written to us!"

It was strange that I had never thought of the possibility of their
knowing any thing connected with Ernest. Mr. Harland was the only
gentleman with whom he was on terms of intimacy, the only one to whom we
thought of applying in the extremity of anxiety.

"Has the ship been heard from? What was its name?" I asked, unconscious
of the folly of my first question.

"Not yet. It was called the 'Star of the East.' A beautiful and
hope-inspiring name. Mr. Brahan can give you Mr. Harland's address. You
can write to your husband through him. Every thing is as clear as
noonday. Do you not already inhale the fragrance of the opening flowers
of joy?"

I tried to smile, but I fear it was a woful attempt. Even the scent of
the roses had been crushed out of my heart.

"Your brother is an exceedingly interesting young man," she observed,
perceiving that I could not speak without painful agitation of Ernest.
"I have never seen a stranger who won my regard so instantaneously."

"Dear Richard!" I cried, "he is all that he seems, and far more. The
noblest, kindest, and best. How sad that such a cloud darkens his young
manhood!"

"It will serve as a background to his filial virtues and bring them out
in bright and beautiful relief. I admire, I honor him a thousand times
more than if he were the heir of an unspotted name, a glorious ancestry.
A father's crimes cannot reflect shame on a son so pure and upright.
Besides, he bears another name, and the world knows not his clouded
lineage."

My heart warmed at her generous praises of Richard, who was every day
more and more endeared to my affections. Where was he now? Had he
commenced his mission, and gone to the gloomy cell where his father was
imprisoned? He did not wish me to accompany him the first time. What a
meeting it must be! He had never consciously beheld his father. The
father had no knowledge of his deserted son. In the dungeon's gloom, the
living grave of hope, joy, and fame, the recognition would take place.
With what feelings would the poor, blasted criminal behold the noble
boy, on whom he had never bestowed one parental care, coming like an
angel, if not to unbar his prison doors, to unlock for him the golden
gates of heaven!

I was too weary for my journey, too much exhausted from agitation to
wait for Richard's return, but I could not lay my head on the pillow
before writing to Mrs. Linwood and Edith, and telling them the tidings I
had learned of the beloved exile. And now the first stormy emotions had
subsided, gratitude, deep and holy gratitude, triumphed over every other
feeling. Far, far away as he was, he was with a friend; he was in all
human probability safe, and he could learn in time how deeply he had
wronged me.

Often, on bended knees, with weeping eyes and rending sighs had I
breathed this prayer,--"Only let him know that I am still worthy of his
love, and I am willing to resign it,--let me be justified in his sight,
and I am willing to devote my future life to _Thee_."

The path was opening, the way clearing, and my faith and resignation
about to be proved. I recognized the divine arrangement of Providence in
the apparently accidental circumstances of my life, and my soul
vindicated the justice as well as adored the mercy of the Most High.

A voice seemed whispering in my ear, "O thou afflicted and tossed with
tempests! there is a haven where thy weary bark shall find rest. I, who
once bore the burden of life, know its sorrows and temptations, its
wormwood and its gall. I bore the infirmities of man, that I might pity
and forgive; I bore the crown of thorns, that thou mightest wear the
roses of Paradise; I drained the dregs of human agony, that thou
mightest drink the wine of immortality. Is not my love passing the love
of man, and worth the sacrifice of earth's fleeting joys?"

As the heavenly accents seemed to die away, like a strain of sweet, low
harmony, came murmuring the holy refrain--

"Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where the infant Redeemer is laid."

CHAPTER LIII.

Richard had visited the Tombs, but had not seen his father. The sight,
the air, the ponderous gloom of the awful prison-house, was as much as
he had fortitude to bear; and though he had at first thought preferred
meeting him in the shadows of night, he recoiled from its additional
horrors.

Poor fellow! I felt heart-sick for him. On one side the memory of his
mother's wrongs,--on the other, his father's sufferings and disgrace. I
knew by my own bitter experience the conflict he was enduring.

"After we have once met," he said, "the bitterest pang will be over."

When he returned, I was shocked at the suffering his countenance
expressed. I sat down by him in silence, and took his hand in mine, for
I saw that his heart was full.

"I cannot take you _there_, Gabriella," were the first words he uttered.
"If my nerves are all unstrung, how will yours sustain the shock? He
told me not to bring you, that your presence would only aggravate his
sufferings."

"Did I not come to share your duties, Richard? and will it not be easier
to go hand in hand, though we do tread a thorny path? I have heard of
women who devote their whole lives to visiting the dungeons of the
doomed, and pouring oil and balm into the wounds of penitence and
remorse; women who know nothing of the prisoner, but that he is a sinful
and suffering son of Adam,--angels of compassion, following with lowly
hearts the footsteps of their divine Master. O my brother, think me not
so weak and selfish. I will convince you that I have fortitude, though
you believe it not. Dr. Harlowe thinks I have a great deal. But,
Richard, is it too painful to speak of the interview you so much
dreaded? Does _he_ look more wretched than you feared?"

"Look, Gabriella! Oh, he is a wreck, a melancholy wreck of a once noble
man. Worn, haggard, gloomy, and despairing, he is the very
personification of a sin-blasted being, a lost, ruined spirit. I had
prepared myself for something mournful and degraded, but not for such a
sight as this. O what an awful thing it is to give oneself up to the
dominion of evil, till one seems to live, and move, and have their being
in it! How awful to be consumed by slow, baleful fires, till nothing but
smouldering ashes and smoking cinders are left! My God! Gabriella, I
never realized before what _accursed_ meant."

He started up, and walked up and down the room, just as Ernest used to
do, unable to control the vehemence of his emotions.

"Father!" he exclaimed, "how I could have loved, revered, adored my
father, had he been what my youthful heart has so panted to embrace. I
loved my mother,--Heaven knows I did; but there always seemed majesty as
well as beauty in the name of father, and I longed to reverence, as well
as to love. Mr. Clyde was a good man, and I honored him; he was my
benefactor, and I was grateful to him,--but he wanted the intellectual
grandeur, to which my soul longed to pay homage. I was always forming an
image in my own mind of what a father should be,--pure, upright, and
commanding,--a being to whom I could look up as to an earthly divinity,
who could satisfy the wants of my venerating nature."

"It is thus I have done," I cried, struck by the peculiar sympathy of
our feelings. "In the dreams of my childhood, a vague but glorious form
reigned with the sovereignty of a king and the sanctity of a
high-priest, and imagination offered daily incense at its throne. Never,
till I read my mother's history, was the illusion dispelled. But how did
he welcome you, Richard? Surely he was glad and proud to find a son in
you."

"He is no longer capable of pride or joy. He is burnt out, as it were.
But he did at last show some emotion, when made to believe that I was
the son of Theresa." His hand trembled, and his hard, sunken eye
momentarily softened. "Did you come here to mock and upbraid me?" he
cried, concealing his sensibility under a kind of fierce sullenness.
"What wrong have I done you? I deserted you, it is true, but I saved you
from the influence of my accursed example, which might have dragged you
to the burning jaws of hell. Go, and leave me to my doom. Leave me in
the living grave my own unhallowed hands have dug. I want no sympathy,
no companionship,--and least of all, yours. Every time I look on you, I
feel as if coals of fire were eating in my heart."

"Remorse, Richard," I exclaimed, "remorse! Oh! he feels. Our
ministrations will not be in vain. Did you tell him that I was with you,
that I came to comfort and to do him good?"

"I did; but he bade me tell you, that if he wanted comfort, it could not
come through you,--that he would far rather his tortures were increased
than diminished, that he might, he said, become inured to sufferings,
which would continue as long as Almighty vengeance could inflict and
immortality endure. My dear sister, I ought not to repeat such things,
but the words ring in my ears like a funeral knell."

"Let us not speak of him any more at present," he added, reseating
himself at my side, and he took my hand and pressed it on his throbbing
temples. "There is sweetness in a sister's sympathy, balm in her gentle
touch."

Mrs. Brahan, who had considerately left us alone, soon entered, saying
it was luncheon time, and that a glass of wine would do us all good. Mr.
Brahan followed her, whose intelligent and animated conversation drew
our minds from the subjects that engrossed our thoughts. It was well for
me that I had an opportunity of becoming so intimately acquainted with a
married pair like Mr. and Mrs. Brahan. It convinced me that the most
perfect confidence was compatible with the fondest love, and that the
purest happiness earth is capable of imparting, is found in the union of
two constant, trusting hearts.

"We have been married seventeen years," said Mrs. Brahan, in a glow of
grateful affection, "and I have never seen a cloud of distrust on my
husband's brow. We have had cares,--as who has not,--but they have only
made us more dear to each, other, by calling forth mutual tenderness and
sympathy. Ours was not one of those romantic attachments which partake
of the wildness of insanity, but a serene, steady flame, that burns
brighter and brighter as life rolls on."

She spoke out of the abundance of her heart, without meaning to contrast
her own bright lot with mine, but I could not help envying her this
unclouded sunshine of love. I tried to rejoice with her, without sighing
for my own darker destiny; but there is an alloy of selfishness in the
purest gold of our natures. At least, there is in mine.

There was another happy pair,--Mr. Regulus and his wild Madge. A letter
from her, forwarded by Mrs. Linwood soon after our arrival in New York,
breathed, in her own characteristic language, the most perfect felicity,
mingled with heart-felt sympathy and affection. Their bridal hours were
saddened by my misfortunes; and they were compelled to leave me when I
was unconscious of their departure. Margaret was delighted with every
thing around and about her,--the place, the people, and most of all her
husband; though, in imitation of the Swedish wife, she called him her
bear, her buffalo, and mastadon. The exuberant energies of her
character, that had been rioting in all their native wildness, had now a
noble framework to grasp round, and would in time form a beautiful
domestic bower, beneath whose shade all household joys and graces would
bloom and multiply.

I have anticipated the reception of this letter, but I feared I might
forget to mention it. It is delightful to see a fine character gradually
wrought out of seemingly rough and unpromising elements. It is beautiful
to witness the triumph of pure, disinterested affection in the heart of
woman. It is sweet to know that the angel of wedded love scatters
thornless flowers in some happy homes,--that there are some thresholds
not sprinkled by blood, but guarded by confidence, which the _destroying
demon_ of the household is not permitted to pass over.

I do not like to turn back to myself, lest they who follow me should
find the path too shadowy and thorny. But is it not said that they who
go forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall come again rejoicing,
bending under the weight of golden sheaves?

I wrote to Ernest for the first time, for we had never been parted
before. Again and again I commenced, and threw down the pen in despair.
My heart seemed locked, closed as with Bastile bars. What words of mine
could pierce through the cloud of infamy in which his remembrance
wrapped me? He would not believe my strange, improbable tale. He would
cast it from him as a device of the evil spirit, and brand me with a
deeper curse. No! if he was so willing to cast me off, to leave me so
coldly and cruelly, without one farewell line, one wish to know whether
I were living or dead, let him be. Why should I intrude my vindication
on him, when he cared not to hear it? He had no right to believe me
guilty. Had a winged spirit from another sphere come and told me that
_he_ was false, I would have spurned the accusation, and clung to him
more closely and more confidingly.

"But you knew his infirmity," whispered accusing conscience, "even
before you loved him; and have you not seen him writhing at your feet in
agonies of remorse, for the indulgence of passions more torturing to
himself than to you! It is you who have driven him from country and
home, innocently, it is true, but he is not less a wanderer and an
exile. Write and tell him the simple, holy truth, then folding your
hands meekly over your heart, leave the result to the disposal of the
God of futurity."

Then words came like water rushing through breaking ice. They came
without effort or volition, and I knew not what they were till I saw
them looking at me from the paper, like my own image reflected in a
glass. Had I been writing a page for the book of God's remembrance, it
could not have been more nakedly true. I do believe there is inspiration
now given to the spirit in the extremity of its need, and that we often
speak and write as if moved by the Holy Ghost, and language comes to us
in a Pentecostal shower, burning with heaven's fire, and tongues of
flame are put in our mouth, and our spirits move as with the wings of a
mighty wind.

I recollect the closing sentence of the letter. I knew it contained my
fate; and yet I felt that I had not the power to change it.

"Come back to your country, your mother, and Edith. I do not bid you
come back to me, for it seems that the distance that separates us is too
immeasurable to be overcome. I remember telling you, when the midnight
moon was shining upon us in the solitude of our chamber, that I saw as
in a vision a frightful abyss opening between us, and I stood on one icy
brink and you on the other, and I saw you receding further and further
from me, and my arms vainly sought to reach over the cold chasm, and my
own voice came back to me in mournful echoes. That vision is realized.
Our hearts can never again meet till that gulf is closed, and confidence
firm as a rock makes a bridge for our souls.

"I have loved you as man never should be loved, and that love can never
pass away. But from the deathlike trance in which you left me, my spirit
has risen with holier views of life and its duties. An union, so
desolated by storms of passion as ours has been, must be sinful and
unhallowed in the sight of God. It has been severed by the hand of
violence, and never, with my consent, will be renewed, unless we can
make a new covenant, to which the bow of heaven's peace shall be an
everlasting sign; till passion shall be exalted by esteem, love
sustained by confidence, and religion pure and undefiled be the
sovereign principle of our lives."

CHAPTER LIV.

The Tombs!--shall I ever forget my first visit to that dismal abode of
crime, woe, and despair?--never!

I had nerved myself for the trial, and went with the spirit of a martyr,
though with blanched cheek and faltering step, into the heart of that
frowning pile, on which I could never gaze without shuddering.

Clinging to the arm of Richard, I felt myself borne along through cold
and dreary walls, that seemed to my startled ear echoing with sighs and
groans and curses, upward through dark galleries, and passed ponderous
iron doors that reminded me of Milton's description of the gates of
hell, till the prison officer who preceded us paused before one of those
grim portals, and inserting a massy key, a heavy grating sound scraped
and lacerated my ear.

"Wait one moment," I gasped, leaning almost powerless on the shoulder of
Richard.

"I feared so," said he, passing his arm around me, his eyes expressing
the most intense sensibility. "I knew you could not bear it. Let us
return,--I was wrong to permit your coming in the first place."

"No, no,--I am able to go in now,--the shock is over,--I am quite strong
now."

And raising my head, I drew a quick, painful breath, passed through the
iron door into the narrow cell, where the gloom of eternal twilight
darkly hung.

At first I could not distinguish the objects within, for a mist was over
my sight, which deepened the shadows of the dungeon walls. But as my eye
became accustomed to the dimness, I saw a tall, emaciated figure rising
from the bed, which nearly filled the limited space which inclosed us. A
narrow aperture in the deep, massy stone, admitted all the light which
illumined us after the iron door slowly closed.

The dark, sunken eyes of the prisoner gleamed like the flash of an
expiring taper, wild and fitful, on our entering forms. He was
dreadfully altered,--I should scarcely have recognized him through the
gloomy shade of his long-neglected hair, and thick, unshorn beard.

"Father," said Richard, trying to speak in a cheerful tone, "I have
brought you a comforter. A daughter's presence must be more soothing
than a son's."

I held out my hand as Richard spoke, and he took it as if it were
marble. No tenderness softened his countenance,--he rather seemed to
recoil from me than to welcome. I noticed a great difference in his
reception of Richard. He grasped his hand, and perused his features as
if he could not withdraw his gaze.

"Are you indeed my son?" he asked, in an unsteady tone. "Do you not mock
me? Tell me once more, are you Theresa's child?"

"As surely as I believe her an angel in heaven, I am."

"Yes,--yes, you have her brow and smile; but why have you come to me
again, when I commanded you to stay away? And why have you brought this
pale girl here, when she loathes me as an incarnate fiend?"

"No,--no," I exclaimed, sinking down on the foot of the bed, in
hopelessness of spirit, "I pity, forgive, pray for you, weep for you."

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