Ernest Linwood | Page 5

making fun of you. It was so mean."
"But you must go back to school, Richard. You are the best scholar.
The master is proud of you, and will not give you up. I would not have
it said that I was the cause of your leaving, for twice your weight in
solid gold."
"Would you not despise me if I asked pardon, when I have done no
wrong; to appear ashamed of what I glory in; to act the part of a coward,
after publicly proclaiming him to be one?"
"It is hard," said I, "but--"
We were walking homeward all the while we were talking, and at every
step my spirits sank lower and lower. How different every thing
seemed now, from what it did an hour ago. True, I had been treated

with harshness, but I had no right to rebel as I had done. Had I kissed
the rod, it would have lost its sting,--had I borne the smart with
patience and gentleness, my companions would have sympathized with
and pitied me; it would not have been known beyond the walls of the
academy. But now, it would be blazoned through the whole town. The
expulsion of so distinguished a scholar as Richard Clyde would be the
nine days' gossip, the village wonder. And I should be pointed out as
the presumptuous child, whose disappointed vanity, irascibility, and
passion had created rebellion and strife in a hitherto peaceful seminary.
I, the recipient of the master's favors, an ingrate and a wretch! My
mother would know this--my gentle, pale-faced mother.
Our little cottage was now visible, with its low walls of grayish white,
and vine-encircled windows.
"Richard," said I, walking as slowly as possible, though it was growing
darker every moment, "I feel very unhappy. I will go and see the master
in the morning and ask him to punish me for both. I will humble myself
for your sake, for you have been my champion, and I never will forget
it as long as I live. I was wrong to rush out of school as I did,--wrong to
tear the paper from his hands,--and I am willing to tell him so now. It
shall all be right yet, Richard,--indeed it shall."
"You shall not humble yourself for me, Gabriella; I like a girl of spirit."
We had now reached the little gate that opened into our own green yard.
I could see my mother looking from the window for her truant child.
My heart began to palpitate, for no Catholic ever made more faithful
confessions to his absolving priest, than I to my only parent. Were I
capable of concealing any thing from her, I should have thought myself
false and deceitful. With feelings of love and reverence kindred to
those with which I regarded my Heavenly Father, I looked up to her,
the incarnate angel of my life. This expression has been so often used it
does not seem to mean much; but when I say it, I mean all the filial
heart is capable of feeling. I was poor in fortune, but in her goodness
rich. I was a lonely child, but sad and pensive as she was, she was a
fountain of social joy to me. Then, she was so beautiful--so very, very
lovely!

I caught the light of her pensive smile through the dimness of the hour.
She was so accustomed to my roaming in the woods, she had suffered
no alarm.
"If my mother thinks it right, you will not object to my going to see Mr.
Regulus," said I, as Richard lifted the gate-latch for me to enter.
"For yourself, no; but not for me. I can take care of myself, Gabriella."
He spoke proudly. He did not quite come up to my childish idea of a
boy hero, but I admired his self-reliance and bravery. I did not want
him to despise me or my lack of spirit. I began to waver in my good
resolution.
My mother called me, in that soft, gentle tone, so full of music and of
love.
In ten minutes I had told her all.
CHAPTER III.
If I thought any language of mine could do justice to her character, I
would try to describe my mother. Were I to speak of her, my voice
would choke at the mention of her name. As I write, a mist gathers over
my eyes. Grief for the loss of such a being is immortal, as the love of
which it is born.
I have said that we were poor,--but ours was not abject poverty,
hereditary poverty,--though I had never known affluence, or even that
sufficiency which casts out the fear of want. I knew that my mother
was the child of wealth, and that she had been nurtured