Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author

by Caroline Lee Hentz

"If you knew all,—if I could tell you all," I cried,—and again I felt the barbed anguish that prostrated me at the grave,—"and you shall know,—your generous love demands this confidence. When your mother has read the history of my parentage, I will place it in your hands; though my mother's character is as exalted and spotless as your own, there is a cloud over my name that will for ever rest upon it. Knowing that, you cannot, you will not wish to unite your noble, brilliant destiny with mine. This hour will be remembered as a dream, a bright, but fleeting dream."

"What do I care for the past?" he exclaimed, detaining me as I endeavored to move on. "Talk not of a clouded name. Will not mine absorb it? What shaft of malice can pierce you, with my arm as a defence, and my bosom as a shield? Gabriella, it is you that I love, not the dead and buried past. You are the representative of all present joy and hope. I ask for nothing but your love,—your exclusive, boundless love,—a love that will be ready to sacrifice every thing but innocence and integrity for me,—that will cling to me in woe as in weal, in shame as in honor, in death as in life. Such is the love I give; and such I ask in return. Is it mine? Tell me not of opposing barriers; only tell me what your heart this moment dictates; forgetful of the past, regardless of the future? Is this love mine?"

"It is," I answered, looking up through fast-falling tears. "Why will you wring this confession from me, when you only know it too well?"

"One question more, Gabriella, for your truth-telling lips to answer. Is this love only given in return? Did it not spring spontaneously forth from the warmth and purity of your own heart, without waiting the avowal of mine? Gratitude is not love. It is stone, not bread, to a spirit as exacting as mine."

Again the truth was forced from me by his unconquerable will,—a will that opened the secret valves of thought, and rolled away the rock from the fountain of feeling. Even then I felt the despotism as well as the strength of his love.

I cannot, I dare not, repeat all that he uttered. It would be deemed too extravagant, too high-wrought. And so it was. Let woman tremble rather than exult, when she is the object of a passion so intense. The devotion of her whole being cannot satisfy its inordinate demands. Though the flame of the sacrifice ascend to heaven, it still cries, "Bring gifts to the altar,—bring the wine of the banquet,—the incense of the temple,—the fuel of the hearth-stone. Bring all, and still I crave. Give all, I ask for more."

Not then was this warning suggested. To be wildly, passionately loved, was my heart's secret prayer. Life itself would be a willing sacrifice to this devotion. Suspicion that stood sentinel at the door of Faith, Distrust that threw its shadow over the sunshine of truth, and Jealousy, doubting, yet adoring still, would be welcomed as household guests, if the attendants of this impassioned love. Such was the dream of my girlhood.

When we entered the lawn, lights began to glimmer in the house. I trembled at the idea of meeting Mrs. Linwood, or the Amazonian Meg. There was a side door through which I might pass unobserved, and by this ingress I sought my chamber and locked the door. A lamp was burning on the table. Had I lingered abroad so late? Had the absence of Ernest been observed?

I sat down on the side of the bed, threw off my bonnet and scarf, shook my hair over my shoulders, and pushed it back with both hands from my throbbing temples. I wanted room. Such crowding thoughts, such overflowing emotions, could not be compressed in those four walls. I rose and walked the room back and forth, without fear of being over-heard, on the soft carpet of velvet roses. What revelations had been made known to me since I had quitted that room! How low I had been degraded,—how royally exalted! A child unentitled to her father's name!—a maiden, endowed with a princely heart! I walked as one in a dream, doubting my own identity. But one master thought governed every other.

"He loves me!" I repeated to myself. "Ernest Linwood loves me! Whatever be the future, that present bliss is mine. I have tasted woman's highest, holiest joy,—the joy of loving and being beloved. Sorrow and trial may be mine; but this remembrance will remain, a blessed light through the darkness of time,—'a star on eternity's ocean.'"