Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author

by Caroline Lee Hentz

The young man, perceiving that he was observed, blushed with the most ingenuous modesty, took up his hat that was lying on the grass, put his paper and pencil in his portfolio, and walked away into the wilderness of stately and majestic trees, that rose dome within dome, pillar within pillar, like a grand cathedral. We followed slowly in the beaten path, through the dark green maples, the bright-leaved luxuriant beech trees, and the quivering aspens, whose trembling leaves seem instinct with human sensibility. And all the time we wandered through the magnificent aisles of the island, the deep roar of the cataract, like the symphony of a great organ, rolled solemnly through the leafy solitude, and mingled with the rustling of the forest boughs.

In the evening the young artist sought an introduction to our party. His name was Julian, and had the advantage of romantic association. I was glad that Ernest gave him a cordial reception, for I was extremely prepossessed in his favor. Even the wild idea that he might be my unknown brother, had entered my mind. I remembered Mrs. Linwood's advice too well to express it. I even tried to banish it, as absurd and irrational; but it would cling to me,—and gave an interest to the young stranger which, though I dared not manifest, I could not help feeling. Fortunately his undisguised admiration of Edith was a safeguard to me. He was too artless to conceal it, yet too modest to express it. It was evinced by the mute eloquence of eyes that gazed upon her, as on a celestial being; and the listening ear, that seemed to drink in the lowest sound of her sweet, low voice. He was asked to exhibit his sketches, which were pronounced bold, splendid, and masterly.

Edith was leaning on her brother's shoulder, when she recognized her own likeness, most faithfully and gracefully executed. She started, blushed, and looked towards young Julian, whose expressive eyes were riveted on her face, as if deprecating her displeasure. There were no traces of it on her lovely countenance; even a smile played on her lips, at the faint reflection of her own loveliness.

And thus commenced an acquaintance, or I might say an attachment, as sudden and romantic as is ever described in the pages of the novelist. As soon as the diffidence that veiled his first introduction wore away, he called forth his peculiar powers of pleasing, and Edith was not insensible to their fascination. Since her brother's marriage, she had felt a vacuum in her heart, which often involved her in a soft cloud of pensiveness. She was unthroned, and like an uncrowned queen she sighed over the remembrance of her former royalty. It was not strange that the devotion of Julian, the enthusiasm of his character, the fervor of his language, the ardor, the grace of his manner, should have captivated her imagination and touched her heart. I never saw any one so changed in so short a time. The contrast was almost as great, to her former self, as between a placid silver lake, and the foam of the torrent sparkling and flashing with rainbows. Her countenance had lost its air of divine repose, and varied with every emotion of her soul. She was a thousand times more beautiful, and I loved her far more than I had ever done before. There was something unnatural in her exclusive, jealous love of her brother, but now she acknowledged the supremacy of the great law of woman's destiny. Like a flower, suddenly shaken by a southern gale, and giving out the most delicious perfumes unknown before, her heart fluttered and expanded and yielded both its hidden sweetnesses.

"We must not encourage him," said Mrs. Linwood to her son. "We do not know who he is; we do not know his family or his lineage; we must withdraw Edith from the influence of his fascinations."

I did not blame her, but I felt the sting to my heart's core. She saw the wound she had unconsciously made, and hastened to apply a balm.

"The husband either exalts, or lowers, a wife to the position he occupies," said she, looking kindly at me. "She loses her own identity in his. Poverty would present no obstacle, for she has wealth sufficient to be disinterested,—but my daughter must take a stainless name, if she relinquish her own. But why do I speak thus? My poor, crippled child! She has disowned the thought of marriage. She has chosen voluntarily an unwedded lot. She does not, cannot, will not think with any peculiar interest of this young stranger. No, no,—my Edith is set apart by her misfortunes, as some enshrined and holy being, whom man must vainly love."

I had never seen Mrs. Linwood so much agitated. Her eyes glistened, her voice faltered with emotion. Ernest, too, seemed greatly troubled. They had both been accustomed to look upon Edith as consecrated to a vestal life; and as she had hitherto turned coldly and decidedly from the addresses of men, they believed her inaccessible to the vows of love and the bonds of wedlock. The young Julian was a poet as well as an artist; his pictures were considered masterpieces of genius in the painting galleries of the cities; he was, as report said, and as he himself modestly but decidedly affirmed, by birth and education a gentleman; he had the prestige of a rising fame,—but he was a stranger. I remembered my mother's history, and the youth of St. James seemed renewed in this interesting young man. I trembled for the future happiness of Edith, who, whatever might be her decision with regard to marriage, now unmistakably and romantically loved. Again I asked myself, "might not this young man be the son of the unfortunate Therésa, who under an assumed name was concealing the unhappy circumstances of his birth?"

"Let us leave this place," said Ernest, "and put a stop at once to the danger we dread. Are you willing, Gabriella, to quit these sublime Falls to-morrow?"

"I shall carry them with me," I answered, laughingly. "They are henceforth a part of my own being."