"I saw a young female and thought it might be my sister, or I should not have intruded. Shall I find her,--shall I find my mother within?"
"They have gone to meet you,--they have been looking for you these many days; I know not how you have missed them."
"By coming another road. I jumped from the carriage and walked on, too impatient to wait its slow motions in ascending the hill. And they have gone to meet me. They really wish to see me back again!"
He spoke with deep feeling. The home thoughts and affections of years thrilled from his tone. This seemed one of those self-evident truths, that required no confirmation, and I made no answer. I wondered if I ought to ask him to walk in,--him, the master and the heir; whether I should ask him to take a seat on the oaken settee, where he could watch the carriage, ascending the winding hill.
"Do not let me disturb you," he said, looking at me with a questioning, penetrating glance, then added, "am I guilty of the rudeness of not recognizing a former acquaintance, who has pa.s.sed from childhood to youth, during my years of absence?"
"No, sir," I answered, again wondering if politeness required me to introduce myself. "I am a stranger to you, though for two years your mother"s home has been mine. My name is Lynn,--Gabriella Lynn."
I was vexed with myself for this awkward introduction. I did not know what I ought to say, and painful blushes dyed my cheeks. I would not have mentioned my name at all, only, if his mother and sister delayed their coming, he might feel awkward himself, from not knowing what to call me.
"My mother"s protegee!" said he, his countenance lightening as he spoke.
"Edith has mentioned you in her letters; but I expected to see a little girl, not the young lady, whom I find presiding genius here."
My self-respect was gratified that he did not look upon me as a child, and there was something so graceful and unostentatious in his air and manner, my self-possession came back without an effort to recall it.
"Will you walk in?" I asked, now convinced it was right.
"Thank you; I am so weary of the confinement of the carriage, I like the freedom of the open air. I like this rich, velvet gra.s.s. How beautiful, how magnificent!" he exclaimed, his eye taking in the wide sweep of landscape, here and there darkened with shade, and at intervals literally blazing with the crimson sunlight,--then sweeping on over the swelling mountains, so grand in their purple drapery and golden crowns.
"How exquisitely beautiful! My mother could not have selected a lovelier spot,--and these old granite walls! how antique, how cla.s.sic they are!"
He turned and examined them, with a pleased yet criticizing eye. He walked up and down the velvet lawn with a firm, yet restless step, stopping occasionally to measure with his glance the towering oaks and the gigantic elm. I began to be uneasy at the protracted absence of Mrs.
Linwood, and kept my eyes fixed upon the road, whose dark, rich, slatish-colored surface, seen winding through green margins, resembled a stream of deep water, it was so smooth and uniform. I knew how full must be the heart of the traveller. I did not wish to interrupt his meditations even by a look.
We saw it coming,--the family carriage. I saw his pale cheek flush at my joyous exclamation. He moved rapidly towards the gate, while I ran into the house, up stairs and into my own room, that I might not intrude on moments too sacred for curiosity.
In a little while, I could hear the sound of their mingling voices coming up the long flight of marble steps, across the wide piazza, and then they came soft and m.u.f.fled from the drawing-room below. At first, forgetful of self, I sympathized in their joy. I rejoiced for my benefactress, I rejoiced for the tender and affectionate Edith. But after sitting there a long time alone, and of course forgotten in the rapture of this family reunion, thoughts of self began to steal over and chill the ardor of my sympathetic emotions. I could not help feeling myself a mote in the dazzling sunshine of their happiness. I could not help experiencing, in all its bitterness, the isolation of my own destiny. I remembered the lamentation of the aged and solitary Indian, "that not a drop of his blood flowed in the veins of a living being." So it was with me. To my knowledge, I had not a living relative. Friends were kind,--some were more than kind; but oh! there are capacities for love friends can never fill. There are niches in the temple of the heart made for household G.o.ds, and if they are left vacant, no other images, though of the splendor of the Grecian statuary, can remove its desolation. _Deep calleth unto deep_, and when no answer cometh, the waves beat against the lonely strand and murmur themselves away.
I tried to check all selfish, repining feelings. I tried to keep from envying Edith, but I could not.
"O that I, too, had a brother!"
Was the cry of my craving heart, and it would not be stilled. I wiped away tear after tear, resolving each should be the last, but the fountain was full, and every heaving sigh made it overflow.
At length I heard the sound of Edith"s crutches on the stairs, faint and m.u.f.fled, but I knew it from all other sounds. She could mount and descend the stairs as lightly as a bird, in spite of her infirmity.
"Ah! truant!" she cried, as she opened the door, "you need not think to hide yourself here all night; we want you to come and help us to be happy, for I am so happy I know not what to do."
Her eyes sparkled most brilliantly through those drops of joy, as different to the tears I had been shedding as the morning dew is to December"s wintry rain.
"But what are you doing, Gabriella?" she added, sitting down beside me and drawing my hand from my eyes. "In tears! I have been almost crying my eyes out; but you do not look happy. I thought you loved me so well, you would feel happy because I am so. Do you not?"
"You will hate me for my selfishness, dear Edith. I did think of you for a long time, and rejoice in your happiness. Then I began to think how lonely and unconnected I am, and I have been wicked enough to envy your treasures of affection for ever denied to me. I felt as if there was no one to love me in the wide world. But you have remembered me, Edith, even in the depth of your joy, ingrate that I am. Forgive me," said I, pa.s.sing my arms round her beautiful white neck. "I will try to be good after this."
She kissed me, and told me to bathe my eyes and come right down, her mother said I must. Ernest had inquired what had become of me, and he would think it strange if I hid myself in this way.
"And you have seen him, Gabriella," she cried, and her tongue ran glibly while I plunged my face in a basin of cold water, ashamed of the traces of selfish sorrow. "You have seen my own dear brother Ernest. And only think of your getting the first glimpse of him! What _did_ you think of him? What _do_ you think of him now? Is he not handsome? Is there not something very striking, very attractive about him? Is he not different from any one you ever saw before?"
"There _is_ something very striking in his appearance," I answered, smiling at the number and rapidity of her questions, "but I was so disconcerted, so foolish, I hardly dared to look him in the face. Has he changed since you saw him last?"
"Not much,--rather paler, I think; but perhaps it is only fatigue, or the languor following intense excitement. I feel myself as if all my strength were gone. I cannot describe my sensations when I saw him standing in the open gateway. I let mamma get out first. I thought it was her right to receive the first embrace of welcome; but when he turned to me, I threw myself on his neck, discarding my crutches, and clung to him, just as I used to do when a little, helpless, suffering child. And would you believe it, Gabriella? he actually shed tears. I did not expect so much sensibility. I feared the world had hardened him,--but it has not. Make haste and come down with me. I long to look at him again. Here, let me put back this scarlet geranium. You do not know how pretty it looks. Brother said--no--I will not tell you what he said. Yes, I will. He said he had no idea the charming young girl, with such a cla.s.sic face and aristocratic bearing, was mother"s little protegee."
"You asked him, Edith, I know you did."
"Supposing I did,--there was no harm in it. Come, I want you to see mamma; she looks so young and handsome. Joy is such a beautifier."
"I think it is," said I, as I gazed at _her_ star-bright eyes and blush-rose cheeks. We entered the drawing-room together, where Ernest was seated on the sofa by his mother, with her hand clasped in his.
Edith was right,--she did look younger and handsomer than I had ever seen her. She was usually pale and her face was calm. Now a breeze had stirred the waters, and the sunshine quivered on the rippling surface.
They rose as we entered, and came forward to meet us. My old trepidation returned. Would Mrs. Linwood introduce me,--and if she did, in what manner? Would there be any thing in her air or countenance to imply that I was a dependent on her bounty, rather than an adopted daughter of the household? Hush,--these proud whispers. Listen, how kindly she speaks.
"My dear Gabriella, this is my son, Ernest. You know it already, and he knows that you are the child of my adoption. Nevertheless, I must introduce you to each other."
Surprised and touched by the maternal kindness of her manner, (I ought not to have been surprised, for she was always kind,) I looked up, and I know that grat.i.tude and sensibility pa.s.sed from my heart to my eyes.
"I must claim the privilege of an adopted brother," said he, extending his hand, and I thought he smiled. Perhaps I was mistaken. His countenance had a way of suddenly lighting up, which I learned to compare to sunshine breaking through clouds. The hand in which he took mine was so white, so delicately moulded, it looked as if it might have belonged to a woman,--but he was a student, the heir of wealth, not the son of labor, the inheritor of the primeval curse. It is a trifle to mention,--the hand of an intellectual man,--but I had been so accustomed to the large, muscular fingers of Mr. Regulus, which seemed formed to wield the weapon of authority, that I could not but notice the contrast.
How pleasantly, how delightfully the evening pa.s.sed away! I sat in my favorite recess, half shaded by the light drapery of the window; while Ernest took a seat at his mother"s side, and Edith occupied a low ottoman at his feet. One arm was thrown across his lap, and her eyes were lifted to his face with an expression of the most idolizing affection. And all the while he was talking, his hand pa.s.sed caressingly over her fair flaxen hair, or lingered amidst its glistering ringlets.
It was a beautiful picture of sisterly and fraternal love,--the fairest I had ever seen. The fairest! it was the first, the only one. I had never realized before the exceeding beauty and holiness of this tender tie. As I looked upon Edith in her graceful, endearing att.i.tude, so expressive of dependence and love, many a sentence descriptive of a brother"s tenderness floated up to the surface of memory. I remembered part of a beautiful hymn,--
"Fair mansions in my Father"s house For all his children wait; And I, your elder _brother_ go, To open wide the gate."
The Saviour of mankind called himself our brother,--stamping with the seal of divinity the dear relationship.
I had imagined I felt for Richard Clyde a sister"s regard. No, no! Cold were my sentiments to those that beamed in Edith"s upturned eyes.
Ernest described his travels, his life abroad, and dwelt on the peculiarities of German character, its high, imaginative traits, its mysticism and superst.i.tion, till his tongue warmed into enthusiasm,--and _one_ of his hearers at least felt the inspiration of his eloquence. His mother had said he was reserved! I began to think I did not know the right meaning of the word. If he paused and seemed about to relapse into silence, Edith would draw a long breath, as if she had just been inhaling some exhilarating gas, and exclaim,--
"Oh! do go on, brother; it is so long since we have heard you talk; it is such a luxury to hear a person talk, who really _says_ something."
"I never care about talking, unless I do have something to _say_," he answered, "but I think I have monopolized attention long enough. As a guest, I have a right to be entertained. Have you forgotten my love for music, Edith?"
"O no! I remember all your favorite airs, and have played them a thousand times at least. Do you wish to hear me now?"
"Certainly, I do; I have heard nothing so sweet as your voice, dear Edith, since I heard your last parting song."
He rose and moved the harp forward, and seated her at the instrument.
"Does not Miss Lynn play?" he asked, running his fingers carelessly over the glittering strings.
"Who is Miss Lynn?" repeated Edith, with a look of inquiry.
I laughed at her surprise and my own. It was the first time I had ever heard myself called so, and I looked round involuntarily to see who and where "Miss Lynn" was.
"Oh, Gabriella!" cried Edith, "I did not know whom you meant. I a.s.sure you, brother, there is no Miss Lynn here; it is Gabriella--_our Gabriella_--that is her name; you must not call her by any other."