"Here, where the phantom of Ernest haunts my every step, where the echo of his voice is heard in every gale, and the shadow of departed joy comes between me and the sunshine of heaven? What can I do here but remind you by my presence of him, whom I have banished for ever from your arms? Let me go, my own dear mother, for I cannot remain passive here. I shall not want female sympathy and guardianship, for Mrs. Brahan is all that is kind and tender, and knows enough of my sad history to be entitled to unbounded confidence. I will write to her, and be guided by her, as if she were another Mrs. Linwood."
She yielded at last, and so did Dr. Harlowe, who cheered me by his cordial approval. He said it was the best thing I could do for myself; for change of scene, and a strong motive of action, might save me from becoming a confirmed invalid. Edith wept, but made no opposition. She believed I was in the path of duty, and that it would be made smooth beneath my feet.
No tidings from Ernest came to interrupt the dreary blank of his absence,—the same continuity of anxiety and uncertainty stretching on into a hopeless futurity. Again and again I said to myself—
"Better so a thousand times, than to live as I have done, scathed by the lightning of jealousy. Even if he returned, I could not, with the fear of God now before me, renew our unblest wedlock. The hand of violence has sundered us, and my heart fibres must ever bleed from the wrench, but they will not again intwine. He has torn himself ruthlessly from me; and the shattered vine, rent from its stay, is beginning to cling to the pillars of God's temple. It is for him I pray, for him I mourn, rather than myself. It is for his happiness, rather than my own justification, that I desire him to know the history of my innocence. I am willing to drink the cup of humiliation even to the dregs, if it may not pass from me; but spare him, O Heavenly Father, the bitter, bitter chalice."
It was a bleak morning in early winter, that we commenced our journey to that city, where little more than a year ago I had gone a young and happy bride. As we rode along the winding avenue, I looked out on the dry russet lawn, the majestic skeleton of the great elm, stripped of the foliage and hues of life, and saw the naked branches of the oaks clinging to each other in sad fraternity, and heard the wind whistling through them as through the shrouds of a vessel. With an involuntary shiver I drew nearer to Richard, and hid my face from the prophetic desolation of nature.
CHAPTER LII.
On our arrival in New York, we stopped at the —— hotel till private lodgings could be obtained. We both wished to be as retired as possible from public observation, and for this purpose I remained in my room, where Richard, as my brother, had the privilege of visiting me. I was anxious he should go immediately to Mr. Brahan's; for, added to my desire to be under the influence of her feminine regard, I cherished a faint hope that through him I might learn something of Ernest's mysterious exile.
They both returned with Richard; and while Mr. Brahan remained with him below, she came to my chamber, and welcomed me with a warmth and tenderness that melted, while it cheered.
"You must not stay here one hour longer," said she, pressing one hand in hers, while she laid the other caressingly on my short, curling hair. "You must go with me, and feel as much at home as with your own Mrs. Linwood. I pass a great many lonely hours, while my husband is absent engaged in business; and it will be a personal favor to me. Indeed, you must not refuse."