"You have seen your mother?" at length I said, feeling that I must no longer keep him from her, "and Edith? And oh, Ernest! have you seen my father? Do you know I have a father, whom I glory in acknowledging? Do you know that the cloud is removed from my birth, the stigma from my name? Oh, my husband, mine is a strange, eventful history!"
"Mr. Brahan told me of the discovery of your father, and of the death of his unhappy brother. I have not seen him yet. But my mother! When I left her, Gabriella, she had not one silver hair. My hand sprinkled that premature snow."
"It matters not now, dear Ernest," I cried, pained by the torturing sighs that spoke the depth of his remorse. "Flowers will bloom sweetly under that light snow. Edith is happy. We will all be happy,—my father too,—come and see him, Ernest,—come, and tell me, if I have need to blush for my lineage."
"Not for your lineage, but your husband. What must this noble father think of me?"
"Every thing that is kind and Christian. He has sustained my faith, fed my hopes, and prophesied this hour of reunion. Come, the moment you have seen him, you will trust, revere, and love him."
With slow and lingering steps we walked the winding gallery that led from the library, and entered the parlor, whose lights seemed dazzling in contrast to the soft gloom we had left behind.
Hand in hand we approached my father, who stood with his back to one of the windows, his tall and stately figure nobly defined. I tried to utter the words, "My husband! my father!" but my parted lips were mute. I threw myself into his arms, with a burst of emotion that was irrepressible, and he grasped the hand of Ernest and welcomed and blest him in warm, though faltering accents. Then Edith came with her sweet April face, and hung once more upon her brother's neck, and his mother again embraced him, and Julian walked to the window and looked abroad, to hide the tears which he thought a stain upon his manhood.
It was not till after the excitement of the hour had subsided, that we realized how weak and languid Ernest really was. He was obliged to confess how much he had suffered from illness and fatigue, and that his strength was completely exhausted. As he reclined on one of the sofas, the crimson hue of the velvet formed such a startling contrast to the pallor of his complexion, it gave him an appearance almost unearthly.
"You have been ill, my son," said Mrs. Linwood, watching him with intense anxiety.
"I have been on the confines of the spirit world, my mother; so near as to see myself by the light it reflected. Death is the solar microscope of life. It shows a hideous mass, where all seemed fair and pure."