Part 39 (1/2)
Brahan's house, and of the picture of my mother I so longed that I should see. The wish was gratified sooner than I antic.i.p.ated; for that very evening, it was sent to me by Mr. Brahan, with a very elegant note, in which he asked me to take charge of it till the rightful owner appeared to claim it as his own.
”It _is_ like you, Gabriella,” said Ernest, gazing with evident admiration on the beauteous semblance; ”and it is an exquisite painting too. You must cherish this picture as a proof of your mother's beauty and your father's genius.”
I did cherish it, as a household divinity. I almost wors.h.i.+pped it, for though I did not burn before it frankincense and myrrh, I offered to it the daily incense of memory and love.
As Margaret consented to remain a week with her friend Miss Haven, we were left in quiet possession of our elegant leisure, and Ernest openly rejoiced in her absence. He read aloud to me, played and sung with thrilling melody, and drew out all his powers of fascination for my entertainment. The fear of his discovering my clandestine meeting grew fainter and fainter as day after day pa.s.sed, without a circ.u.mstance arising which would lead to detection.
One evening, Mr. Harland, with several other gentlemen, was with us.
Ernest was unusually affable, and of course my spirits rose in proportion. In the course of conversation, Mr. Harland remarked that he had a _bet_ for me to decide.
”I cannot consent to be an umpire,” said I. ”I dislike betting in ladies, and if gentlemen indulge in it, they must refer to their own s.e.x, not ours.”
”But it has reference to yourself,” he cried, ”and you alone _can_ decide.”
”To me!” I exclaimed, involuntarily glancing at Ernest.
”Yes! A friend of mine insists that he saw you walking in the ---- Park, the other morning, with a gentleman, who was too tall for Mr. Linwood.
That you wore a gray shawl and green veil, but that your air and figure could not possibly be mistaken. I told him, in the first place, that you never dressed in that style; in the second, that he was too far from you to distinguish you from another; and in the third, that it was impossible you should be seen walking with any gentleman but your husband, as he never gave them an opportunity. As he offered a high wager, and I accepted it, I feel no small interest in the decision.”
”Tell your friend, Mr. Harland,” exclaimed Ernest, rising from his seat, and turning pale as marble, ”that I will not permit my wife's name to be bandied from lip to lip in the public street, nor her movements made a subject for low and vulgar betting.”
”Mr. Linwood!” cried Mr. Harland, rising too, with anger flas.h.i.+ng from his eyes, ”do you apply those remarks to me?”
”I make no application,” answered Ernest, with inexpressible haughtiness; ”but I again a.s.sert, that the freedom taken with my wife's name is unwarrantable, and _shall_ not be repeated.”
”If Mrs. Linwood considers herself insulted,” cried Mr. Harland, ”I am ready to offer _her_ any apology she may desire. Of one thing she may be a.s.sured: no disrespect was intended by the gentleman to whom I allude, and she certainly cannot think that I would forget her claims as a lady, and as the wife of the man whom I had reason to believe my friend.”
He spoke the last sentence with strong emphasis, and the blood mounted high in the pale face of Ernest. I could only bow, as Mr. Harland concluded, in acceptance of the apology, for I saw a thunder-cloud darkening over me, and knew it would break in terror over my head.
”I have spoken hastily, Mr. Harland,” said Ernest. ”If I have said any thing wounding to your feelings, as a gentleman, I recall it. But you may tell your friend, that the next time he a.s.serts that he has seen Mrs. Linwood walking with a stranger, in a public place, when I _know_ she was in company with some of the first ladies of the city for benevolent designs, I shall call him to account for such gross misrepresentations.”
And I heard this in silence,--without contradiction.
Oh! how must the woman feel who has deceived her husband for a guilty purpose, when I, whose motives were pure and upright, suffered such unutterable anguish in the prospect of detection? If I were hardened enough to deny the a.s.sertion,--if I could only have laughed and wondered at the preposterous mistake,--if I could have a.s.sumed an air of indifference and composure, my secret might have been safe. But I was a novice in deception; and burning blushes, and pale, cold shadows alternately flitted across my face.
It was impossible to resume the conversation interrupted by a scene so distressing to some, so disagreeable to all. One by one our guests retired, and I was left alone with Ernest.
The chandeliers were glittering overhead, the azure curtains received their light in every sweeping fold, cherubs smiled bewitchingly from the arching ceiling, and roses that looked as if they might have blossomed by ”Bendemere's stream,” blushed beneath my feet,--yet I would gladly have exchanged all this splendor for a spot in the furthest isle of the ocean, a lone and barren spot, where the dark glance which I _felt_, but did not see, could not penetrate.
I sat with downcast eyes and wildly throbbing heart, trying to summon resolution to meet the trial I saw there was no means of escaping. If he questioned, I must answer. I could not, dared not, utter a falsehood, and evasion would be considered equivalent to it.
He walked back and forth the whole length of the parlor, two or three times, without speaking, then stopped directly in front of me, still silent. Unable to bear the intolerable oppression of my feelings, I started up and attempted to leave the room; but he arrested me by the arm, and his waxen fingers seemed hardened to steel.
”Gabriella!”
His voice sounded so distant, so cold!
”Ernest!”
I raised my eyes, and for a moment we looked each other in the face.