Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author

by Caroline Lee Hentz

A low, faint knock at the door. "Come in," said Mrs. Linwood, supposing it a servant. She started, when the door opened, and Ernest, pale as a ghost, stood on the threshold. I made a movement towards him, but he did not look at me. His eyes were riveted on his mother, who had half risen at his entrance, but sunk back on her seat. He passed by me, and approaching the window where she sat, knelt at her feet, and bowed his head in her lap.

"Mother," said he, in broken accents, "I come, like the returning prodigal. I have sinned against Heaven and thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son,—give me but the hireling's place, provided it be near thy heart."

"And have I found thee again, my son, my Ernest, my beloved, my only one?" she cried, bending down and clasping her arms around him. "Heavenly Father! I thank thee for this hour."

Never had I loved them both as I did at that moment, when the holy tears of penitence and pardon mingled on their cheeks, and baptized their spirits as in a regenerating shower. My own tears flowed in unison; but I drew back, feeling as if it were sacrilege to intrude on such a scene. My first impulse was to steal from the room, leaving them to the unwitnessed indulgence of their sacred emotions; but I must pass them, and I would not that even the hem of my garments should rustle against them.

Mrs. Linwood was the first to recognize my presence; she raised her head and beckoned me to approach. As I obeyed her motion, Ernest rose from his knees, and taking my hand, held it for a moment closely, firmly in his own; he did not embrace me, as he had always done in the transports of reconciliation; he seemed to hold me from him in that controlling grasp, and there was something thrilling, yet repelling, in the dark depths of his eyes that held me bound to the spot where I stood.

"Remain with my mother, Gabriella," said he; "I give you back to her guardianship, till I have done penance for the sins of this night. The lips that have dared to speak to a mother, and such a mother, the words of bitterness and passion, are unworthy to receive the pledge of love. My eyes are opened to the enormity of my offence, and I abhor myself in dust and ashes; my spirit shall clothe itself in garments of sackcloth and mourning, and drink of the bitter cup of humiliation. Hear, then, my solemn vow;—nay, my mother, nay, Gabriella,—I must, I will speak. My Saviour fasted forty days and forty nights in the wilderness, he, who knew not sin, and shall not I, vile as a malefactor, accursed as a leper, do something to prove my penitence and self-abasement? For forty days I abjure love, joy, domestic endearments, and social pleasures,—I will live on bread and water,—I will sleep on the uncarpeted floor,—or pass my nights under the canopy of heaven."

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 sunshine 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 God 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 passed 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.