Ernest Linwood | Page 4

over it, and the hot
tears gushed in scalding streams through my fingers, till the pillow of
earth was all wet as with a shower.
Oh, they did me good, those fast-gushing tears! There was comfort,
there was luxury in them. Bless God for tears! How they cool the dry
and sultry heart! How they refresh the fainting virtues! How they revive
the dying affections!
The image of my pale sweet, gentle mother rose softly through the
falling drops. A rainbow seemed to crown her with its seven-fold
beams.
Dear mother!--would she will me to go back where the giant pen
dipped its glittering nib into the deep blue ether?
CHAPTER II.
"Get up, Gabriella,--you must not lie here on the damp ground. Get
up,--it is almost night. What will your mother say? what will she think
has become of you?"
I started up, bewildered and alarmed, passing my hands dreamily over
my swollen eyelids. Heavy shadows hung over the woods. Night was
indeed approaching. I had fallen into a deep sleep, and knew it not.
It was Richard Clyde who awakened me. His schoolmaster called him
Dick, but I thought it sounded vulgar, and he was always Richard to me.
A boy of fifteen, the hardest student in the academy, and, next to my
mother and Peggy, the best friend I had in the world. I had no brother,
and many a time had he acted a brother's part, when I had needed a
manly champion. Yet my mother had enjoined on me such strict
reserve in my intercourse with the boy pupils, and my disposition was
so shy, our acquaintance had never approached familiarity.

"I did not mean to shake you so hard," said he, stepping back a few
paces as he spoke, "but I never knew any one sleep so like a log before.
I feared for a moment that you were dead."
"It would not be much matter if I were," I answered, hardly knowing
what I said, for a dull weight pressed on my brain, and despondency
had succeeded excitement.
"Oh, Gabriella! is it not wicked to say that?"
"If you had been treated as badly as I have, you would feel like saying
it too."
"Yes!" he exclaimed, energetically, "you have been treated badly,
shamefully, and I told the master so to his face."
"You! You did not, Richard. You only thought so. You would not have
told him so for all the world."
"But I did, though! As soon as you ran out of school, it seemed as if he
made but one step to the door, and his face looked as black as night. I
thought if he overtook you, he might,--I did not know what he would
do, he was so angry. I sat near the door, and I jumped right up and
faced him on the threshold. 'Don't, sir, don't! I cried; she is a little girl,
and you a great strong man.'
"'What is that to you, sirrah?' he exclaimed, and the forked lightning
ran out of his eye right down my backbone. It aches yet, Gabriella.
"'It is a great deal, Sir,' I answered, as bold as a lion. 'You have treated
her cruelly enough already. It would be cowardly to pursue her.'"
"Oh, Richard! how dared you say that? Did he not strike you?"
"He lifted his hand; but instead of flinching, I made myself as tall as I
could, and looked at him right steadfastly. You do not know how pale
he looked, when I stopped him on the threshold. His very lips turned
white--I declare there is something grand in a great passion. It makes

one look somehow so different from common folks. Well, now, as soon
as he raised his hand to strike me, a red flush shot into his face, like the
blaze of an inward fire. It was shame,--anger made him white--but
shame turned him as red as blood. His arm dropped down to his
side,--then he laid his hand on the top of his head,--'Stay after school,'
said he, 'I must talk with you.'"
"And did you?" I asked, hanging with breathless interest on his words.
"Yes; I have just left him."
"He has not expelled you, Richard?"
"No; but he says I must ask his pardon before the whole school
to-morrow. It amounts to the same thing. I will never do it."
"I am so sorry this has happened," said I. "Oh! that I had never written
that foolish, foolish poetry. It has done so much mischief."
"You are not to blame, Gabriella. He had no business to laugh at it; it
was beautiful--all the boys say so. I have no doubt you will be a great
poetess one of these days. He ought to have been proud of it, instead of