"Mother!" exclaimed Ernest,—and his voice sounded hollow and unnatural,—"I have reason to be angry,—I do not deserve this stern rebuke,—you know not how much I have borne and forborne for your sake. But if my mother teaches that rebellion to my will is a wife's duty, it is time indeed that we should part."
"Oh, Ernest!" cried Edith; "oh, my brother! you will break my heart."
And rising, she seemed to fly to his side, and throwing her arms round his neck, she lifted up her voice and wept aloud.
"Hush, my daughter, hush, Edith," said her mother. "I wish my son to hear me, and if they were the last words I ever expected to utter, they could not be more solemn. I have loved you, Ernest, with a love bordering on idolatry,—with a pride most sinful in a Christian parent,—but even the strength of a mother's love will yield at last before the stormy passions that desolate her home. The spirit of the Spartan mother, who told her son when he left her for the battle field, 'to return with his shield, or on it,' animates my bosom. I had far, far rather weep over the grave of my son, than live to blush for his degeneracy."
"And I would far rather be in my grave, this moment," he answered, in the same hoarse, deep undertone, "than suffer the agonies of the last few hours. Let me die,—let me die at once; then take this young man to your bosom, where he has already supplanted me. Make him your son in a twofold sense, for, by the heaven that hears me, I believe you would bless the hour that gave him the right to Gabriella's love."
"Father, forgive him, he knows not what he utters," murmured his mother, lifting her joined hands to heaven. I still clung to her in trembling awe, forgetting my own sorrow in the depth and sacredness of hers. "Ernest," she said, in a louder tone, "I cannot continue this painful scene. I will go to my own chamber and pray for you; pray for your release from the dominion of the powers of darkness. Oh, my son! I tremble for you. You are standing on the brink of a terrible abyss. The fiend that lurked in the bowers of Eden, and made its flowers dim with the smoke of fraternal blood, is whispering in your ear. Beware, my son, beware. Every sigh and tear caused by the indulgence of unhallowed passion, cries as loud to Almighty God for vengeance as Abel's reeking blood. Come, Gabriella, I leave him to reflection and prayer. I leave him to God and his own soul. Come, Edith, leave him and follow me."
There was something so commanding in her accent and manner I dared not resist her, though I longed to remain and whisper words of peace and love to my unhappy husband. I knew that his soul must be crushed into the dust, and my heart bled for his sufferings. Edith, too, withdrew her clinging arms, for she dared not disobey her mother, and slowly and sadly followed us up the winding stairs.
"Go to bed, my child," said she to Edith, when we reached the upper platform. "May God in his mercy spare you from witnessing another scene like this."
"Oh, mother! I never shall feel happy again. My poor brother! you did not see him, mother, when you left him. You did not look upon him, or you could not have left him. There was death on his face. Forgive him, dear mother! take him back to your heart."
"And do you think he is not here?" she exclaimed, pressing her hands on her heart, as if trying to sustain herself under an intense pain. "Do you think he suffers alone? Do you think I have left him, but for his good? Do you think I would not now gladly fold him in my arms and bathe his soul in the overflowing tenderness of maternal love? O child, child! Earth has no sounding line to fathom the depths of a mother's heart. Good-night. God bless you, my darling Edith."