Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the AuthorHentz, Caroline Lee
General
Ernest Linwood; or, The Inner Life of the Author
Hentz, Caroline Lee
Fiction
As soon as I reached my chamber, I threw myself on my bed, which seemed
to roll beneath me with a billowy motion. Never had I felt so strangely,
so wildly. Confused images crowded through my brain. I moved on an
undulating surface. Now, it was the swelling and sinking of the blue
gray waves of ocean,--then, the heaving green of the churchyard, billows
of death, over which the wind blew damp and chill. I had left the lamp
unextinguished, where its light reflected the rosy red of the curtains,
and that became a fiery meteor shooting through crimson clouds, and
leaving a lurid track behind it.
I sat up in bed; frightened at the wild confusion of my brain, I passed
my hands over my eyes to remove the illusion, but in vain. The massy
wardrobe changed to the rocky walls of the Rip Raps, and above it I saw
the tall form of the white-locked chief. The carpet, with its clusters
of mimic flowers, on a pale gray ground, was a waste of waters, covered
with roses, among which St. James was swimming and trying to grasp them.
"What is the matter?" I cried, clasping my burning hands. "Am I asleep,
and are these images but the visions of a feverish imagination?"
"You dream, my love," answered the low, deep voice of Ernest; "but my
mother is coming to awaken you with a cold and icy hand. I have
scattered roses over you while you slept, but her blighting touch has
withered them."
Thus vision after vision succeeded each other, hurrying along like
clouds in a tempestuous sky. I suppose I must have slept at last, but
the morning found me in a state of utter exhaustion. Nervous excitement,
sitting so long on the damp grass, and lingering out in the dewy evening
air, brought on an illness which confined me to my bed many days. Dr.
Harlowe threatened to put me in a strait-jacket and send me to a lunatic
asylum, if I did not behave better in future.
"I must take you home with me," he said; "our quiet, humdrum mode of
life is better for you, after all. Your little rocking chair stands
exactly where you used to sit in it. I do not like to see any one else
occupy it. I get in disgrace with my wife every day, now you are not by
me to hang up my hat and remind me by a glance to shake the dust from my
feet. Such a quick pulse as this will never do, my child."
For a week I was kept in a darkened room, and perfect quietude was
commanded. The doctor came every day, and sometimes several times a day,
with his smiling, sunny countenance, and anxious, affectionate heart.
Mrs. Linwood and Edith stole gently in and out, with steps soft as
falling snowflakes, and Margaret Melville was not permitted to enter at
all. Every morning fresh flowers were laid upon my pillow, which I knew
were gathered by the hand of Ernest, and they whispered to me of such
sweet things my languid senses _ached_ to hear them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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