Part 49 (1/2)
Pale and shuddering I listened to this wild, stem vow, fearing that his reason was forsaking him. No martyr at the stake ever wore an expression of more sublime self-sacrifice.
”Alas, my son!” exclaimed his mother, ”one tear such as you have shed this hour is worth a hundred rash vows. Vain and useless are they as the iron bed, the girdle of steel, the scourge of the fanatic, who expects to force by self-inflicted tortures the gates of heaven to open. Do you realize to what sufferings you are dooming the hearts that love you, and whose happiness is bound up in yours? Do you realize that you are making our home dark and gloomy as the dungeons of the Inquisition?”
”Not so, my mother; Gabriella shall be free as air, free as before she breathed her marriage vows. To your care I commit her. Let not one thought of me cloud the suns.h.i.+ne of the domestic board, or wither one garland of household joy. I have imposed this penance on myself in expiation of my offences as a son and as a husband. If I am wrong, may a merciful G.o.d forgive me. The words are uttered, and cannot be recalled.
I cannot add perjury to the dark list of my transgressions. Farewell, mother; farewell, Gabriella; pray for me. Your prayers will call down ministering angels, who shall come to me in the hour of nature's agony, to relieve and sustain me.”
He left us, closed the door, and pa.s.sed down the stairs, which gave a faint echo to his retreating footsteps. We looked at each other in grief and amazement, and neither of us spoke for several minutes.
”My poor, misguided boy!” at length burst from his mother's pale lips, ”I fear I was too harsh,--I probed him too deeply,--I have driven him to the verge of madness. Oh! how difficult it is to deal with a spirit so strangely, so unhappily const.i.tuted! I have tried indulgence, and the evil seemed to grow with alarming rapidity. I have exercised a parent's authority, and behold the result. I can do nothing now, but obey his parting injunction,--pray for him.”
She folded her hands across her knees, and looked down in deep, revolving thought.
Forty days of gloom and estrangement! Forty days! Oh! what a wilderness would life be during those long, long days! And what was there beyond? I dared not think. A dreary shadow of coming desolation,--like the cold, gray mist which wrapped me as I stood on the rocks of Niagara, hung over the future. Would I lift it if I could? Oh, no! Perish the hand that would antic.i.p.ate the day of G.o.d's revealing.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Ernest, faithful to his vow, slept on the floor in the library, and though he sat down at the table with us, he tasted nothing but bread and water. A stranger might not have observed any striking difference in his manners, but he had forbidden himself even the glance of affection, and his eye studiously and severely avoided mine. From the table he returned to the library, and shut himself up till the next bell summoned us to our now joyless and uncomfortable meals.
I cannot describe the tortures I endured during this season of unnatural and horrible constraint. It sometimes seemed as if I should grow crazy; and poor Edith was scarcely less unhappy. It was now that Mrs. Linwood showed her extraordinary powers of self-control, her wisdom, and intellectual strength. Calmly and serenely she fulfilled her usual duties, as mistress of her household and benefactress of the village. To visitors and friends she was the same hospitable and charming hostess that had thrown such enchantment over the granite walls of Grandison Place. She had marked out the line of duty for Edith and myself, which we tried to follow, but it was often with sinking hearts and faltering footsteps.
”If Ernest from a mistaken sense of duty has bound himself by a painful and unnatural vow,” said she, in that tone of grave sweetness which was so irresistible, ”_we_ must not forget the social and domestic duties of life. A threefold responsibility rests upon us, for we must endeavor to bear the burden he has laid down. He must not see the unlimited power he has over our happiness, a power he is now unconsciously abusing. Smile, my children, indulge in all innocent recreations; let me hear once more your voices echoing on the lawn; let me hear the soothing notes of my Edith's harp; let me see my Gabriella's fingers weaving as wont, sweet garlands of flowers.”
And now, the house began to be filled up with visitors from the city, who had been anxiously waiting the return of Mrs. Linwood. The character of Ernest for eccentricity and moodiness was so well known, that the peculiar situation in which he had placed himself did not attract immediate attention. But I knew I must appear, what I in reality was for the time, a neglected and avoided wife; and most bitterly, keenly did I suffer in consequence of this impression. In spite of the pain it had caused, I was proud of Ernest's exclusive devotion, and the notice it attracted. I knew I was, by the mortification I experienced, when that devotion was withdrawn. It is true, I knew he was inflicting on himself torments to which the fabled agonies of Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion combined could not be compared; but others did not; they saw the averted eye, the coldness, the distance, the estrangement, but they did not, could not see, the bleeding heart, the agonized spirit hidden beneath the veil.
I ought to mention here the reason that Mr. Regulus did not come as usual to welcome us on our return. He had been appointed professor of mathematics in ---- College, and had given up the charge of the academy where he had taught so many years with such indefatigable industry and distinguished success. He was now visiting in Boston, but immediately on his return was to depart to the scene of his new labors.
Mr. Regulus, or, as we should now call him, Professor Regulus, had so long been considered a fixture in town, this change in his destiny created quite a sensation in the circle in which he moved. It seemed impossible to do without him. He was as much a part of the academy as the colossal pen, whose gilded feathers still swept the blue of ether.
Were it not for the blight that had fallen on my social joys, I should have mourned the loss of this steadfast friend of my orphan years; but now I could not regret it. The mildew of suspicion rested on our intercourse, and all its pleasant bloom was blasted. He was in Boston.
Had he gone to ask the dauntless Meg to be the companion of his life, in the more exalted sphere in which he was about to move? And would she indeed suffer her ”wild heart to be tamed by a loving hand?”
What delightful evenings we might now have enjoyed had not the dark pa.s.sion of Ernest thrown such a chilling shadow over the household!
Richard came almost every night, for it was his _home_. He loved and reverenced Mrs. Linwood, as if she were his own mother. Edith was to him as a sweet and gentle sister; and though never by word or action he manifested a feeling for me which I might not sanction and return as the wife of another, I knew, that no one had supplanted me in his affections, that I was still the Gabriella whom he had enshrined in his boyish heart,--in ”all save hope the same.” He saw that I was unhappy, and he pitied me. The bright sparkle of his eye always seemed quenched when it turned to me, and his voice when it addressed me had a gentler, more subdued tone. But his spirit was so sparkling, so elastic, his manners so kind and winning, his conversation so easy and graceful, it was impossible for sadness or constraint to dwell long in his presence.
Did I never contrast his sunny temper, his unselfish disposition, his happy, genial temperament, with the darkness and moodiness and despotism of Ernest? Did I never sigh that I had not given my young heart to one who would have trusted me even as he loved, and surrounded me with a golden atmosphere of confidence, calm and beautiful as an unclouded autumn sky? Did I not tremble at the thought of pa.s.sing my whole life in the midst of the tropic storms, the thunders and lightnings of pa.s.sions?
And yet I loved Ernest with all the intensity of my first affection. I would have sacrificed my life to have given peace to his troubled and warring spirit. His self-imposed sufferings almost maddened me. My heart, as it secretly clung to him and followed his lonely steps as, faithful to his frantic vow, he withdrew from domestic and social intercourse,--longed to express its emotions in words as wildly impa.s.sioned as these:--
”Thou hast called me thine angel in moments of bliss, Still thine angel I'll prove 'mid the horrors of this.
Through the furnace unshrinking thy steps I'll pursue, And s.h.i.+eld thee, and save thee, and perish there too.”
Oh, most beloved, yet most wretched and deluded husband, why was this dark thread,--this cable cord, I might say,--twisted with the pure and silvery virtues of thy character?
In the midst of this unhappy state of things, Margaret Melville arrived.
She returned with Mr. Regulus, who brought her one beautiful evening, at the soft, twilight hour, to Grandison Place. Whether it was the subdued light in which we first beheld her, or the presence of her dignified companion, she certainly was much softened. Her boisterous laugh was quite melodized, and her step did not make the crystal drops of the girandoles tinkle as ominously as they formerly did. Still, it seemed as if a dozen guests had arrived in her single person. There was such superabundant vitality about her. As for Mr. Regulus, he was certainly going on even unto perfection, for his improvement in the graces was as progressive and as steady as the advance of the rolling year. I could not but notice the extreme elegance of his dress. He was evidently ”at some cost to entertain himself.”
”Come up stairs with me, darling,” said she to me, catching my hand and giving it an emphatic squeeze; ”help me to lay aside this uncomfortable riding dress,--besides,” she whispered, ”I have so much to tell you.”