"If it be indeed so," I answered, "should not the revelation come from him, rather than me?"
"There needs no formal declaration. I have seen it, known it, even before yourselves were conscious of its existence—this all engrossing passion. Before my son's return I foresaw it, with the prescience of maternal love. I knew your young, imaginative heart would find its ideal in him, and that his fastidious taste and sensitive, reserved nature would be charmed by your simplicity, freshness, and genius. I knew it, and yet I could not warn you. For when did youth ever believe the cautions of age, or passion listen to the voice of truth?"
"Warn me, madam? Oh, you mean him, not me. I never had the presumption to think myself his equal; never sought, never aspired to his love. You believe me, Mrs. Linwood—tell me, you believe me in this?"
"I do, Gabriella. Your heart opened as involuntarily and as inevitably to receive him, as the flower unfolds itself to the noonday sun. It is your destiny; but would to God I could oppose it, that I could substitute for you a happier, if less brilliant lot."
"A happier lot than to be the wife of Ernest? Oh! Mrs. Linwood, Heaven offers nothing to the eye of faith more blissful, more divine."
"Alas! my child, such is always the dream of love like yours, and from such dreams there must be a day of awakening. God never intended their realization in this world. You look up to me with wondering and reproachful glance. You have feared me, Gabriella, feared that I would oppose my son's choice, if it rested on one so lowly as you believe yourself. You are mistaken—I have no right to dictate to him. He is more than of age, has an independent fortune and an independent will. The husband lifts his wife to his own position in society, and his name annihilates hers. The knowledge of your father's character gives me pain, and the possibility of his ever claiming you as his child is a source of deep inquietude,—but it is chiefly for you I tremble, for you I suffer, my beloved Gabriella."
I looked up in consternation and alarm. What invisible sword hung trembling over the future?
"Ernest," she began, then stopping, she raised me from my kneeling attitude, led me to a sofa, and made me seat myself at her side. "Ernest," she continued, holding my hand tenderly in hers, "has many noble and attractive qualities. He is just, generous, and honorable; he is upright, honest, and true; the shadow of deceit never passed over his soul, the stain of a mean action never rested on his conduct. But,"—and her hand involuntarily tightened around mine,—"he has qualities fatal to the peace of those who love him,—fatal to his own happiness; suspicion haunts him like a dark shadow,—jealousy, like a serpent, lies coiled in his heart."
"He has told me all this," I cried, with a sigh of relief,—"but I fear not,—my confidence shall be so entire, there shall be no room for suspicion,—my love so perfect it shall cast out jealousy."
"So I once thought and reasoned in all the glow of youthful enthusiasm, but experience came with its icy touch, and enthusiasm, hope, joy, and love itself faded and died. The dark passions of Ernest are hereditary,—they belong to the blood that flows in his veins,—they are part and lot of his existence,—they are the phantoms that haunted his father's path, and cast their chill shadows over the brief years of my married life. The remembrance of what I have suffered myself, makes me tremble for her who places her happiness in my son's keeping. A woman cannot be happy unless she is trusted."