Several months have passed away, and Mrs. Euston and her daughter have returned to their native land. A single room in an obscure boarding-house in the heart of a southern city was occupied by both. The expenses of their voyage to New Orleans, anda few months sojourn in their present abode, humble as it was, had nearly exhausted their slender resources. Edith had made many efforts to procure a few scholars to instruct in music and drawing, but the departure of the greater portion of the wealthy, during the unhealthy season, had deprived her of those she had been able to obtain. She thought of going out as a daily governess, but the feeble health and deep dejection of her mother, offered an insuperable objection to such an arrangement. When she left her alone even for an hour, she usually found her in such a state of nervous excitement on her return, as was painful to behold.
Edith is seated near the only window of their sordid apartment in the afternoon of a sultry summer day; the sun is shining without with overpowering splendor; a heated vapor rises from the paved streets and seems to shimmer in the breathless atmosphere. Edith had lost all the freshness and roundness of youth; her cheek was deadly white, and her emaciated form seemed to indicate the approach of the terrible disease of which her brother had died. She was sewing industriously, and her air of weariness and lassitude betrayed the strong mastery of the spirit over the body, in the continuance of her employment.
Mrs. Euston was lying on the bed; and twenty years seemed to have passed over her since the night of her son's death. The oppressive heat had induced her to remove her cap, and her long hair, white as the snows of winter, lay around her wasted and furrowed features. From infancy the respect and observance due to one of high station had been bestowed upon her, and the reverse in their fortunes was more than she could bear. At first, her high-toned feelings had shrunk from obligations to the new heir, and she approved of Edith's rejection; but as time passed, amid privations to which she had never been accustomed, her very soul revolted against their miserable mode of living.
To a woman of refined feelings and vivid imagination, the coarse and sordid realities around her were sufficiently heart-sickening, without having the terrible fear forced upon her that her only child was hurrying to the grave through her exertions to keep them literally from starvation. Her daughter now thought she slept, but her mind was far too busily occupied to permit the sweet influences of slumber to soothe her into a momentary forgetfulness of her bitter grief. Suddenly she unclosed her eyes, and spoke.
"Edith, my child, lay aside that work—such constant employment is destroying you. Is it not time that we heard from Robert Barclay? Surely he will not be relentless, when he hears that your health is failing. After all, Edith, you need not be so averse to receiving assistance from him; the property he holds is rightfully ours."
"Mother," replied Edith, a faint flush mounting to her cheek, "for your sake I have submitted to humiliate myself before our ruthless kinsman, but I fear it will be in vain. Only as his wife will my claims on his humanity and justice be acknowledged. Would you not shrink, dearest mother, from condemning your child to such a doom? Could you not better bear to stand above my grave, and know me at peace within it, than to behold me wedded to this unprincipled man, to whose pernicious example my brother owed his early doom?"
"Speak not of dying, my daughter," said the poor mother, hysterically, "I cannot bear it; I am haunted by the fear that I shall at last be left on earth alone. I daily behold you fading before my eyes without the power to avert the fate I see written upon your pale cheek and wasted form. As Robert's wife you would have a luxurious home, the means of gratifying refined tastes, and of contributing to the happiness of others. He may atone to me, by the preservation of one child, for the destruction of the other."
"Mother, your fears for me blind you to the truth. Are not mental griefs far more difficult to bear than the privations of poverty, galling as they are? As Mr. Barclay's wife, I should loathe myself for the hypocrisy I should be compelled to practice toward him; and the wealth for which I had sold myself, would allow me leisure to brood over my own unworthiness, until madness might be the result. No, no, mother -come what may, I never can be so untrue to myself as to become the wife of Robert Barclay."
"God help us, then!" said Mrs. Euston, despondingly.
A carriage drove to the door, and a gentleman alighted from it. Edith heard the bustle, but she did not look out to see what occasioned it, and she was startled from her painful reverie by a knock on the door. She opened it, and started back with a faint cry as she recognized Barclay.
"The landlady told me to come up," he said, as he glanced around the wretched apartment, and a slight twinge of remorse touched his heart as he remarked the changed appearance of Edith. She motioned him to enter, while Mrs. Euston arose from the bed, and offered him a seat.
"I concluded it would be best to reply to your communication in person," said he to Mrs. Euston, as he took the offered chair. "I come with the most liberal intentions, provided Miss Euston will listen to reason. I am grieved to see you in a place so unsuited to your former station as this wretched apartment."
"And yet," said Edith, "I have passed some pleasant hours in this room, comfortless as it looks. So long as I had the hope of being able to provide for our wants by my own exertions, I found contentment in its humble shelter."
"Your happiness must then be truly independent of outward circumstances," replied Barclay, with a touch of his old sarcasm. "I supposed, from the tenor of your mother's petition, that you had begun to repent of your high-toned language to me in our last interview, and would now accede to terms you once spurned, as the price of my assistance to you and yours."
Edith curbed her high spirit, and calmly replied, "You misunderstood my mother's words. As the mother of the late heir, she justly considers herselfentitled to a pittance from your estate, and she claimed from your humanity, what she was hopeless of obtaining from your sense of justice. For myself, I hoped for nothing from either, but I acquiesced in her application. I am sorry that you have founded on it expectations which must prove fallacious."
"Then, madam, I need remain no longer," said Barclay, addressing Mrs. Euston. "Your daughter remembers our interview previous to, and after, the death of her brother; the only terms on which I would assist you were then explicitly expressed."
Mrs. Euston caught his hand, and bowed her venerable head upon it.
"Have mercy, Robert, upon my gray hairs—my daughter; look at her—she is dying by inches—she is stifling in this wretched spot. The money that was my son's should surely buy a shelter for us. Leave us not helpless, hopeless. My God! my God! give me eloquence to plead for my child!" and she threw herself upon the floor, and raised her clasped hands to heaven.
"Madam," said Barclay, "it only rests with your daughter to have mercy upon you and herself. Where, I ask you, is her filial piety, when she beholds you suffer thus, and relents not toward one who offers her a love that has survived coldness, contempt, contumely."
Edith approached her mother, and assisted her to rise.
"My dearest mother, calm yourself. Humble not yourself thus before our oppressor. God is just—is merciful. He will not forget the widow and the orphan in their extremity. Leave us, Mr. Barclay; had my wishes alone been consulted, you never would have been called on thus to witness our misfortunes."
Barclay bowed, and haughtily strode from the room.
"Another month of privation," he muttered, "and she will surely be mine or Death's. It does not much matter to which she belongs. Ah, if she only knew all!" and he sprung into his cabriolet, and dashed off toward the more aristocratic portion of the city.
In the hope that Edith would be forced to relent, Barclay had remained in New Orleans thus late in the season, and he resolved to linger yet a little longer, until want and suffering should leave her no choice. His passion for her was one of those insanities to which men of his violent character are often liable. He desired her as the one great gift, which was to purify, to exalt him in the scale of humanity. The delicate beauty of her person, the sensibility of her soul, the grace of her manner, rendered her irresistibly attractive to him; but so selfish was his love, that he would sooner have seen her perish at his feet, than have rendered her assistance, except at the price proposed.
Another month passed by, and still there was no news of Edith or her mother. He grasped the daily paper, almost with a sensation of fear, and glanced at the column of deaths, which at that season usually contains a goodly array. Their names were not yet among them, or perchance in their poverty and obscurity they would not find admittance even among the daily list of mortality.
The yellow fever had commenced its annual ravages, and Barclay retreated to a country-house in the vicinity, owned by a friend, and dispatched a confidential servant to inquire concerning Mrs. Euston and her daughter. They were still in the same place, but the mother had been ill, and was still confined to her bed.
One morning, about two weeks afterward, Barclay was seated in a delightful little saloon, over a late breakfast. The room was furnished with every appliance of modern luxury, and the morning air stirred the branches of noble trees without, whose verdant shade completely shut out the glare of the sun. A servant entered, and presented to him a letter which had just been left. The irregular hand with which it was directed, prevented him from recognizing the writing of Edith, and when he opened the missive, which had evidently been blotted with her bitter tears, a flush of triumph mounted to his cheek, and he exclaimed with an oath,
"Mine at last!—I knew it must end thus!"
The letter contained the following words:
"After a night of such suffering as casts all I have previously endured into the shade, I address you. My mother now lies before me in that heavy and death-like sleep which follows utter exhaustion. Her state of health for the last month has demanded my constant care, and the precarious remuneration I have been able to obtain for sewing, I have thus been compelled to give up. We have parted with every souvenir of our better days—even our clothing has been sacrificed, until we have but a change of garments left; and now our landlady insists on being paid the small sum we owe her, or we must leave her house to-day. She came into our room last evening, and the scene which ensued threw my mother into such a state of nervous excitement, that she has not yet recovered from it.""I cannot disguise from myself that she is very ill. If she awakes to a renewal of the same anguish, I dare not contemplate the consequences. You know that I do not love you, Mr. Barclay. I make no pretension to a change in my feelings; repugnant as it must be to a heart of sensibility, I must view this transaction as a matter of bargain and sale. I will accept your late offer, to save my mother from further suffering, and to gain a home for her declining years.""For myself, I will endeavor to be to you—but why should I promise any thing for myself. God alone can give me strength to live after the sacrifice is completed."
"After a night of such suffering as casts all I have previously endured into the shade, I address you. My mother now lies before me in that heavy and death-like sleep which follows utter exhaustion. Her state of health for the last month has demanded my constant care, and the precarious remuneration I have been able to obtain for sewing, I have thus been compelled to give up. We have parted with every souvenir of our better days—even our clothing has been sacrificed, until we have but a change of garments left; and now our landlady insists on being paid the small sum we owe her, or we must leave her house to-day. She came into our room last evening, and the scene which ensued threw my mother into such a state of nervous excitement, that she has not yet recovered from it."
"I cannot disguise from myself that she is very ill. If she awakes to a renewal of the same anguish, I dare not contemplate the consequences. You know that I do not love you, Mr. Barclay. I make no pretension to a change in my feelings; repugnant as it must be to a heart of sensibility, I must view this transaction as a matter of bargain and sale. I will accept your late offer, to save my mother from further suffering, and to gain a home for her declining years."
"For myself, I will endeavor to be to you—but why should I promise any thing for myself. God alone can give me strength to live after the sacrifice is completed."
"Edith."
There was much in this letter that was wounding to his vanity, and bitter to his feelings; but he had triumphed! The stately pride of this girl was humbled before him—her spirit bowed in the dust before the gaunt spectre she had thought herself capable of braving. She would be his—the fair, the pure in heart, would link herself to vice, infamy and crime, for money. Money! the world's god! See the countless millions groveling upon the earth before the great idol—the golden calf, which so often brings with it as bitter a curse as was denounced againstthe people of old, when they forsook the living and true God for its worship.
Can it not buy every thing—even woman's love, or the semblance of it, which would serve him just as well? He, the murderer of the brother, would purchase the compliance of the sister with this magical agent; but—and his heart quailed at the thought—could it buy self-respect? Could it enable him to look into the clear eye of that woman he would call his wife, and say, "My soul is worthy to be linked with thine in the realms of eternity."
No—he felt that the sacrilegious union must be unblessed on earth, and severed in heaven, yet he shrunk not from his purpose.
He lost no time in seeking Edith; Mrs. Euston was yet buried in the leaden slumber produced by a powerful narcotic. The unhappy girl received him alone, and he remarked that his words of impassioned love brought no color to her marble cheek—no emotion to her soul; she seemed to have steeled herself for the interview, and it was not until he pressed the kiss of betrothal upon her pallid lips, that she betrayed any sensibility—then a thrill, a shudder pervaded her whole frame, and he supported her nearly insensible form several moments before she regained power to sustain herself. Could he have looked into that breaking heart, and have read there all the bitter loathing, the agonized struggles for self-control, would he have persisted in his suit? Yes—for this was a part of his vengeance for the slights she had put upon him; and in the future, if she did not play the part he thus forced upon her, with all the devotion he should exact, had he not bitter words at his command to taunt her with the scene of that morning?
A physician was called in, who advised the removal of Mrs. Euston while she slept; and arrangements were soon made to accomplish it. The family to whom Barclay's present retreat belonged, were spending the summer at the north, and their house had been left at his disposal. He determined to remove Mrs. Euston and her daughter thither, while he took up his own abode, until the day of his marriage, with a bachelor friend in the neighborhood.
Edith demanded an interval of a week before their union took place, which he reluctantly granted. Naturally prodigal, he employed the time in ordering the most eleganttrousseaufor his bride. She who so lately was struggling with bitter want, was now surrounded by servants eager to anticipate every wish, while Barclay played the devoted lover. Edith prayed earnestly for power to regard him with such feelings as alone could hallow the union they were about to form. Vain were her lonely struggles—her tearful supplications; a spectral form seemed to rise ever between them, and reproach her that she had been so untrue to herself, even for the preservation of a mother.
The only thing that consoled her for her great sacrifice, was that her beloved mother seemed to revive to some sense of enjoyment, when she again found herself surrounded by that comfort to which she had been accustomed. Weakened in mind as in body, Mrs. Euston fondly flattered herself that her daughter might yet be happy amid the splendors of wealth; and the poor mother welcomed the arbiter of their future fate with smiles and courteous words, to which he listened with politeness, and scorned as the hollow offspring of necessity.
The dreaded day at length arrived, and with the calmness of exhausted emotion, Edith prepared herself for the ceremony which was to consign her to the protection of Barclay. She believed her earthly fate sealed, and resignation was all she could command.
Amid all her suffering, there was one thought which arose perpetually before her; there was one human being on earth who would have risked his life to serve or save her, and she knew that a heart worthy of her love would hear the history of her enforced marriage with bitter disappointment and anguish.
Near the home of her infancy dwelt a family of sons and daughters with whom she had been reared in habits of intimacy. Between herself and the eldest son a strong attachment had grown up; it had never been expressed in words, yet each felt as well assured of the affection of the other, as if a thousand protestations had been uttered. About the time that Mrs. Euston and her daughter left their own home to travel with their beloved invalid, Walter Atwood bade adieu to his paternal home, on a tour to Europe, where he was to complete his professional education as a medical man.
Mrs. Euston's place passed into the hands of strangers, and after a few months all intercourse by letter ceased between their former friends and themselves. After the death of her son, the bereaved mother would not consent to return to their former neighborhood, and thus all trace of them was lost to the Atwoods; but Edith knew in her deep heart that Walter would return—would seek her; and it was this conviction which gave her firmness to resist so long the overtures of Barclay.
Now all was at an end; another hour and the right even to think of him would no longer be hers. Her mother entered her room, folded her to her breast, and whispered,
"The hour has arrived, my child. Robert is here with the clergyman. Do not keep them waiting."
"I am quite ready, mother," said Edith, calmly, and she advanced without hesitation toward the door, for she heard an impatient step without, which she well knew. Barclay awaited her in the hall—he impetuously seized her hand and drew it beneath his arm.
At that moment the door-bell was violently pulled, and both turned impulsively to see who made so imperious a demand for admittance.
At the open door stood two figures, one of a young man, who appeared deeply agitated, for his features, beneath the light of the lamps, seemed white and rigid, as if cut from marble. Over his shoulder appeared a swarthy face, with a pair of bright, keen eyes, gleaming from beneath overhanging brows.
Edith and Barclay both uttered an exclamation—but they were very different in their character. In the impulse of the moment, the former drew her hand forcibly from him who sought to retain it, and withone bound, was in the arms of the foremost stranger, as she exclaimed,
"Walter—my saviour—my preserver! you have come at last!"
The face of Atwood lost its unnatural rigidity as he pressed her to his heart, and said,
"Thank Heaven! I am not then too late!"
Barclay advanced threateningly,
"What does this mean, sir? Are you aware that such conduct in my house is not to be tolerated—that you shall answer for it to me with your life?"
"It means, Mr. Barclay, that I come with authority to prevent the unholy alliance you were about to force upon this helpless and unprotected girl, to place the seal upon your crimes, by clasping in wedlock the hand of the sister with that which is red with the brother's blood."
"'T is false—the boy killed himself, as Edith herself knows full well. Am I to be held accountable for the dissipation of a young fool, who, when once the curb was removed, went headlong to destruction without the necessity of any prompting from me."
"We will waive that part of the question, if you please, Mr. Barclay. I have brought with me one who can prove much more than that. Come forward, Antoine."
The Frenchman advanced, and Barclay grew pale as he recognized him.
"Let us retire to a private room," continued Atwood, in a lower tone—"I would not have Mrs. Euston and her daughter hear too suddenly the developments I am prepared to make."
Then turning to Edith he said—
"You are saved, my dear Edith. Retire with your mother, while I settle with Mr. Barclay."
Mechanically Barclay led the way into an adjoining room. When there, he turned haughtily and said—
"Now, sir, explain yourself—tell me why my privacy is thus invaded, and—"
Atwood interrupted him.
"It is useless to attempt bravado with me, sir. Your whole career is too intimately known to me to render it of any avail. You know that from my boyhood I have loved Miss Euston, for you may remember a conversation which took place between us several years since, when you were received as a visiter at her mother's house. Jealousy enabled you to penetrate what had been carefully veiled from others, and you taxed me with what I would not deny. Do you remember the words you used to the boy you then spoke to? That you would move heaven and earth to win Edith Euston."
"To what does all this tend?" asked Barclay, in an irritated tone.
"Patience, and you will see. I returned from Europe and found that Mrs. Euston's family had left for Havanna. Her lawsuit had gone against her, and she had lost her home. Nothing more was known of her. I lost no time in following her. I reached Cuba, and after many inquiries, traced her to the house of the family which had received her beneath their roof. There I heard the history of her son's unhappy death, at the moment he was about to confer independence upon his mother and sister.Youwere mentioned as a visiter after his death; yourgenerousoffer to share with Miss Euston as your wife the wealth which should have been hers was dwelt on. All this aroused a vague suspicion in my mind. I made minute inquiries, and traced you through all the orgies of your dissipation. One night I was following up the inquiry, and I entered a tavern much frequented by foreigners. A man sat apart in gloomy silence. One of his comrades said—
"'Antoine grieves over the loss of his bird. All the money the American paid him does not make him forget that he sold his best friend!'
"By an electric chain of thought, the incident which attended poor Euston's last moments, occurred to me. I approached the man, and addressed him in French, for I saw that he was a native of that country. I spoke of his bird. He shook his head and said—
"'It is not the loss of the bird, monsieur, but the use that was made of him, that troubles my conscience.'
"In short, to condense a long story, I learned from Antoine, that he remained in your lodgings several days, until the mackaw he sold to you became sufficiently accustomed to you to be caressed without biting. During that time you had a room darkened, and required him to train the bird to fly at a light and overturn it. When he was dismissed, his curiosity was excited, and he watched your movements. He nightly dogged your steps, and traced you to the garden of the villa. He stood within a few feet of you on the night of Euston's death, and beheld the use to which you put his bird. His eyes, accustomed to the gloom without, beheld your dark form glide to the side of your victim. He saw your murderous hand pressed upon the breast of the dying youth."
"'T is false—false. I defy him to prove it."
"It is true, sir—the evidence is such as would condemn you in any court; and now listen to me. I offer you lenient terms, in consideration of the ties of relationship which bind you to those you have so cruelly oppressed. One third of the fortune for which you have paid so fearful a price shall be yours, if you will sign a paper I have with me, which will restore the remainder to Mrs. Euston. If you refuse, I have in my pocket a writ of arrest, and the officers are in the shrubbery awaiting my orders to execute it. Comply with my terms and I suffer you to escape."
Thus confronted by imminent danger, Barclay seemed to lose his courage and presence of mind. He measured the floor with rapid steps a few moments, and then turning to Atwood motioned for the paper, to which he affixed his signature without uttering a word.
"There is yet another condition," said Atwood.
"Leave this country within forty-eight hours. If, after that time, I am made aware of your presence within the jurisdiction of the United States, I will have you arrested as a murderer. The peace of mind of those I have rescued from your power shall not be periled by your presence within the same land they inhabit."Barclay ground his teeth with rage.
"Ishallleave it, be assured, but not to escape from this absurd charge."
"Go then. I care not from what motive."
Another instant, and Barclay had passed from the room. Edith and her mother traveled to their former home in the beautiful land of Florida, under the protection of Atwood, and there, amid rejoicing friends, surrounded by all the happy associations of her bright youth, she gave her hand to her faithful lover.
Barclay perished in a street brawl, in a foreign land, and the whole of her brother's estate finally devolved upon her.
Up, for encounter sternWhile unsheathed weapons gleam;The beacon-fires of Freedom burn,Her banners wildly stream;Awake! and drink at purple springs—Lo! the "White Eagle" flaps his wingsWith a rejoicing scream,That sends an old, heroic thrillThrough hearts that are unconquered still.Leap to your saddles, leap!Tried wielders of the lance,And charge as when ye broke the sleepOf Europe, at the call of France:The knightly deeds of other yearsEclipse, ye matchless cavaliers!While plume and penon dance—That prince, upon his phantom steed,In Ellster lost your ranks shall lead.Flock round the altar, flock!And swear ye will be free;Then rush to brave the battle shockLike surges of a maddened sea;Death, with a red and shattered brandYet clinging to the rigid hand,A blissful fate would be,Contrasted with that darker doomA branded brow—a living tomb.Speed to the combat, speed!And beat oppression down,Or win, by martrydom, the meedOf high and shadowless renown;Ye weary exiles, from afarCame back! and make the savage CzarIn terror clutch his crown;While wronged and vengeful millions pourDefiance at his palace-door.Throng forth with souls to dare,From huts and ruined halls!On the deep midnight of despairA beam of ancient glory falls:The knout, the chain and dungeon caveTo frenzy have aroused the brave;Dismembered Poland calls,And through a land opprest, betrayed,Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade.
Up, for encounter sternWhile unsheathed weapons gleam;The beacon-fires of Freedom burn,Her banners wildly stream;Awake! and drink at purple springs—Lo! the "White Eagle" flaps his wingsWith a rejoicing scream,That sends an old, heroic thrillThrough hearts that are unconquered still.
Leap to your saddles, leap!Tried wielders of the lance,And charge as when ye broke the sleepOf Europe, at the call of France:The knightly deeds of other yearsEclipse, ye matchless cavaliers!While plume and penon dance—That prince, upon his phantom steed,In Ellster lost your ranks shall lead.
Flock round the altar, flock!And swear ye will be free;Then rush to brave the battle shockLike surges of a maddened sea;Death, with a red and shattered brandYet clinging to the rigid hand,A blissful fate would be,Contrasted with that darker doomA branded brow—a living tomb.
Speed to the combat, speed!And beat oppression down,Or win, by martrydom, the meedOf high and shadowless renown;Ye weary exiles, from afarCame back! and make the savage CzarIn terror clutch his crown;While wronged and vengeful millions pourDefiance at his palace-door.
Throng forth with souls to dare,From huts and ruined halls!On the deep midnight of despairA beam of ancient glory falls:The knout, the chain and dungeon caveTo frenzy have aroused the brave;Dismembered Poland calls,And through a land opprest, betrayed,Stalks Kosciusko's frowning shade.
They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed—That on thy lip there is another name;I'll not believe it—though for life estranged—I know thy love's lone worship is the same.The bee that wanders on the summer breath,May wanton safely among leaves and flowers,But by the honied jar it clings till death—There is no change for hearts that loved like ours.You may not mock me—'tis an idle game—The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguilingMay, from the world, conceal a suffering flame,But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling;And I, too, have that power of deceiving,By the strong pride of an unfeeling will,The cold and cunning world in its believing—What boots it all? The heart will suffer still.Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreamingIn the lone hours of the voiceless night,When the sweet past like a new present seeming,Brings back those rosy hours of love and light?Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit thenDelicious joy—although 'tis but a vision—That we have met, caressed and kissed again,And revel still among those sweets Elysian?Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes,And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath partedA lone depression, till thy proud heart aches,And from thy burning orb the tear hath started?And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging,Within thy heart's most secret deep recessesFeel'st thou not then an agony of longingTo dream again of those divine caresses?To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real,While penitence is speaking in thy sighs—For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal—It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes:Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted,With that light seeming which deceit can give—The love I promised thee, when last we parted,Shall never be another's whileyoulive.
They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed—That on thy lip there is another name;I'll not believe it—though for life estranged—I know thy love's lone worship is the same.The bee that wanders on the summer breath,May wanton safely among leaves and flowers,But by the honied jar it clings till death—There is no change for hearts that loved like ours.
You may not mock me—'tis an idle game—The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguilingMay, from the world, conceal a suffering flame,But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling;And I, too, have that power of deceiving,By the strong pride of an unfeeling will,The cold and cunning world in its believing—What boots it all? The heart will suffer still.
Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreamingIn the lone hours of the voiceless night,When the sweet past like a new present seeming,Brings back those rosy hours of love and light?Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit thenDelicious joy—although 'tis but a vision—That we have met, caressed and kissed again,And revel still among those sweets Elysian?
Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes,And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath partedA lone depression, till thy proud heart aches,And from thy burning orb the tear hath started?And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging,Within thy heart's most secret deep recessesFeel'st thou not then an agony of longingTo dream again of those divine caresses?
To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real,While penitence is speaking in thy sighs—For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal—It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes:Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted,With that light seeming which deceit can give—The love I promised thee, when last we parted,Shall never be another's whileyoulive.
A PIC NIC IN OLDEN TIME
Joy is as old as the universe, yet as young as a June rose: and a pic-nic has of all places been its delight, since the little quiet familyfêtes champêtresof Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. So it is of no especial consequence in what reign of what kingdom our clever artist has laid his scene—and sooth to say, from the diversified and pleasantly incongruous costume and accessories of the picture, it might puzzle an uninitiated to tell. But we, who are in the secrets of Maga, and to whom the very brain-workings of her poets and painters are as palpable as the crystal curdling of the lake beneath the filmy breath of the Frost King, of course know all about it, and will whisper in your ear the key to the pretty harmonies of wood and sky and happy faces which he has spread out in a sort of visible cavatina, or dear little love-song, beneath your eye.
It was a gay time at Sweetbriar Lodge—for the fair Alice Hawthorn had just been married to the Squire of Deerdale, and the happy pair (new-married people were even in those times happy, although they were not so set down in the newspapers,) had determined to spend the honeymoon quietly at home, like sensible people, instead of posting off to Bath or Brighton; or mewing themselves up in some outlandish corner of the country, where they could see and hear nothing but themselves, until they were ready to commence the married life by being cloyed with each other's society. The season was mid-summer, and the weather so balmy and beautiful that after wandering about in the woods and fields all day, and watching the moon creep stealthily up the sky to view herself in the fountain, one felt a longing to make his bed on the fresh turf under the katydid's bower, and sleep there. Of course I don't mean the young and happy bridegroom. He never dreamed of being absent from his Alice; and he even felt quite jealous of her little sister Emma, who used sometimes to come and put her laughing, roguish face and curly head between the lovers, as they were sitting on the sofa or reclining on the green turf by the little fountain.
But Alice had another sister, older than herself, and who had already refused several excellent offers of marriage—declaring that she intended to live and die single, unless she should fall in love with some wandering minstrel or prince in disguise, like Lalla Rookh. Her name was Hortensia; but on account of her proud indifference to the attentions and compliments which were every where offered to her wonderful beauty, she was usually called Haughty Hawthorn—a name which seemed to please her better than all the flatteries of which she was the object. She was already twenty-two, and ripening into the full magnificence of glorious womanhood—her heart yet untouched by the electric dart of love, and her fancy free as the birds of air.
Now it was quite natural that the gentle Alice, whom love had made so happy, should willingly enter into a conspiracy with her husband and a parcel of the young people of the neighborhood against the peace and comfort of her haughty sister—deeming of course—as I myself am also of opinion—that a young lady out of love ought to be supremely miserable, whatever she herself may think about it.
Keeping in view the peculiar requisites required by Haughty in a lover, the plan was to get up an old-fashioned pic-nic, at which a young friend of Squire Deerdale, who was studying for an artist, and had just returned from Italy, where he had picked up a little music as well as painting, should be introduced after a mysterious fashion, which would be sure to inflame the imagination of the loveless lady. The artist, according to the squire, was handsome as a prince and eloquent as a minstrel, and his extensive practice in Rome had made him perfect master of the fine arts, the art of making love included. So the pic-nic was proposed that very evening, to take place the next day. Hortensia, who was fond of frolick and fun as the best of them, albeit not yet in love, fell at once into the snare; and the squire carelessly led the conversation to turn upon the sudden and unexpected arrival of the young Duke of St. James upon his magnificent estate adjoining Sweetbriar Lodge, which he said had taken place that very day.
"The duke," said the squire, "is, as you all have heard, one of the most romantic and sentimental youths in the world, and quite out of the way of our ordinary extravagant, matter-of-fact young nobility. I had the pleasure of meeting him when I was in Rome, and could not help being charmed with him. He read and wrote poetry divinely, played the mandolin like St. Cecilia, and sung like an improvisatore. I met him to-day, as he was approaching home in his carriage, and found him, as well as I could judge from a five minutes' conversation, the same as ever. I say nothing—but should a fresh-looking, golden-haired, dreamy-eyed youth be seen at our pic-nic to-morrow, I hope he will be greeted with the courtesy and welcome due not only to a neighbor but a man of genius."
This adroitly concocted speech was drank in like wine by the unsuspicious Hortensia. A duke! a poet! a romantic man of genius! What was it made her heart beat so rapidly?—herheart, that had never beat out of time save over the page of the poet or the novelist—or may be in the trance of some beautiful midnight dream, such as love to hover around the pillows of fair maidens, and who can blame them?
The next morning, as Willis says of one of his fine days, was astray from Paradise; and bright and early our pic-nickers, comprising a goodly company of young people, married and single, with several beautiful children, including of course the roguish Emma, were on the field selected for the day's campaign. It was a lovely spot. Under a noble oak whose limbs, rounded into a leafy dome, shed a palpitating shadow around a sweet little fountain, guarded by a marble naiad, gathered the merry company upon the green velvet ottoman, daisy-spangled, that ran around this splendid natural saloon, bower and drawing-room combined. The day had fulfilled the golden promise of the early morning; the air, impregnated with a sparkling, effervescing sunshine, was as bewitching as the breath of champagne foam, and our adventurers were in the liveliest and gayest spirits.
Noon was culminating, and the less excitable and more worldly portion of the company began to be thinking seriously of the bountiful refection which had been provided for the grand occasion. Hortensia, it was observed by Squire Deerdale and his wife, and the others who were in the secret, had seemed absent and thoughtful, all the morning, and little Emma had teased her sufficiently for not playing with her as usual. At this moment a young man was seen coming down the broad sloping glade at the foot of which the party were seated. The squire immediately rose and welcomed the stranger, introducing him to his bride and sister-in-law, and expressing his pleasure that he had come. "We almost began to fear," he added, "that you had forgotten our humble festival."
"Afêtethus embellished," replied the stranger, bowing with peculiar grace to the ladies, and glancing admiringly at Hortensia, "is not an affair to be so easily forgotten by a wanderer who comes, after years of exile, to revive beneath the blue skies and bluer eyes of his native land."
"But your mandolin, Signor Foreigner; I hope you have not forgotten that?"
"Oh no indeed," returned the stranger with a musical laugh, "I never forget my little friend, whose harmonies have often been my only company. Here it comes," pointing to a lad who just then came up, bearing a handsome though outlandish-looking guitar gingerly across his arm.
Another of the party had also brought his guitar, and the two were soon tinkling away at different parts of the grounds—the latter surrounded by half a dozen young men and women, and several beautiful children; while the stranger, throwing himself on the grass at the feet of Hortensia, upon whose lap nestled the little Emma, began a simple ballad of the olden time—while the squire and his bride stood against the old oak behind Hortensia. At length the strain of the young musician changed, subsiding into low and plaintive undulations.
"It is time for us to go," whispered Alice to her husband; "we are evidentlyde trophere"—and the wedded pair glided noiselessly off, casting mischievous glances at the haughty Hortensia, who sat absorbed in the music, and tears of sympathy and rapture ready to fall from her eyes. It was a clear case of love at first sight.
From this pleasant reverie both musician and listener were suddenly roused by little Emma, who, raising her head and shaking back the long ringlets from her face, exclaimed,
"Oh, sister, hear that! There goes the champagne, and I am so hungry. Come, let us go to dinner."
"Excuse me, madam," exclaimed the stranger, ceasing to play and springing to his feet, "your beautiful little monitor is right. I was already forgetting myself and venturing to dream as of old;" and he offered his arm to Hortensia, with that polite freedom not only permitted, but enjoined, by the etiquette of the pic-nic.
"And do you call it forgetfulness to dream?" inquired Hortensia.
"With so fair a reality before me, yes; but at other times to dream is to live."
"Oh, yes, itisnice to dream!" broke in the little Emma. "Almost as nice as a wedding. Now last night I dreamt that you were married, Haughty, like sister Alice."
A lambent rosy flame seemed to envelop for an instant the beautiful Hortensia, disappearing instantly, yet leaving its scarlet traces on cheek and brow.
"What say you, my pretty one," said the stranger, patting the lovely child upon the head, "what say you to a sandwich and a glass of wine with me, here on the greensward? (They had now approached thetable—if a snow-white damask spread upon the velvet grass, and loaded with tempting viands could be called so.) Is not that better than dreams?"
"I love wine, sir, but mamma and sister say I shouldn't drink it, because it makes my eyes red. Nowyoureyes are as bright as stars. Do you drink wine?"
It was the stranger's turn to blush. And this little childish prattle seemed to have removed the barrier of strangership from between the two young people, who exchanged glances of a sort of merry vexation, and seemed to understand each other as if they were old friends.
That was a merry meal, "all under the greenwood tree," and on the margin of that sweet little fountain, whose waters came up to the very lip of the turf, which it refreshed with a sparkling coolness that ever renewed the brightness of the flowers upon its bosom. After the dinner was over, a dance was proposed, and the services of the handsome stranger, as musician, were cheerfully offered and promptly accepted. It was observed, however, that Hortensia, usually crazy for dancing, strolled pensively about with little Emma at her side, and at length seated herself on a little grassy bank, remote from the dancers, yet where she could overlook the scene.
There was a little pause in the dance, and Squire Deerdale approached the stranger and whispered,
"Do you like her?"
"She's as beautiful as Juno, but I dare not hope that she would ever love a poor vagabond like me. She deserves a prince of the blood, at the very least."
"Never mind!—Vedremo, as we say in Italy;" and with a laugh the young man bounded again into the dance, while the stranger redoubled his attention to his guitar.
The day began to wane, and the shadows of a neighboring mountain to creep slowly across the lea; and yet, so absorbed was that gay company in the merry pleasures of the day, that hours glided by unnoticed; and it was not until the round, yellow moon rose over the eastern hills, as if peeping out to see the sun set, that they thought of breaking up a scene of little less than enchantment.
The stranger scarcely left the side of Hortensia, who seemed completely subdued and fascinated by the serious eloquence, the inexhaustible brilliancy of his conversation, as well as enthralled by the classic beauty of his face, and the respectful yet tender glances which he from time to time cast upon her face. It may also be supposed that the hints casually dropped by the squire the night before, respecting his distinguished acquaintance, the young Duke of St. James, had not been without their effect. Sooth to say, however, that the hitherto cold and impassive Hortensia was really in love, and that she had too much self-respect to make any conditions in the bestowal of her admiration. She was haughty, proud and ambitious—yet at the same time high-minded and generous where her feelings were really interested.
Much may be accomplished in an afternoon between two congenial hearts that meet for the first time; and it is not at all surprising that on their way home the stranger and Hortensia should have lingered a little behind the rest of the party, engaged in deep and earnest talk.
"Beautiful being," whispered the stranger, "I have at length found my heart's idol, whom in dreams I have ever worshiped. What need of long acquaintanceship between hearts made for each other? Lady, I love you!"
"Sir, sir, I beg you to pause. You know not what you are saying—you cannot mean that—"
"But I tell you he does mean it, though," exclaimed a merry voice close at the lady's elbow; and turning round, she saw her mischievous brother-in-law, who had been demurely following their tardy footsteps.
"Brother! you here! I—really—am quite astonished!"
"And," interrupted the stranger, while a dark flush came over his face, "allow me to say, Squire Deerdale, that I also am astonished at this violation of the rights of a friendship even so old and sincere as ours."
"Well, well, I beg your pardon, fair lady; and as for you, sir, after you have heard my explanation, I shall be prepared to give you any satisfaction you may require. You must know, then, my dear old friend, that from a few careless words I dropped last evening, by way of joke, this young lady has imbibed the idea that you are the young Duke of St. James in disguise; and for the purpose of preventing any misunderstandings for the future, it is requisite that my sister and my friend Walter Willie, the artist, should comprehend one another's position fully."
"Good heavens! madam, you cannot believe that I was accessory to this mad prank of your brother's? Do not believe it for the world."
"No, no, I acquit you and every body but myself. I am sure I intended no harm by my thoughtless joke. Come, come, make up the matter at once, so that I may hasten back to Alice, who will begin to grow jealous, directly."
"Madam, dear madam, (Hortensia turned away her head with an imperious gesture,) I have only to beg your pardon for having too long intruded upon your attention, and to take my leave. The poor artist must still worship his ideal at a distance. For him there is but the world of imagination. No such bright reality as being beloved rests in his gloomy future. Farewell!" and the young man, bowing for a moment over the hand of Hortensia, withdrew.
"Brother, brother, what have you done!" passionately exclaimed the beauty, in a voice choked by sobs. "For a foolish joke you have driven away the only being who has ever interested my lonely heart. And now I can never, never be happy again."
"But, dear Hortensia, would you stoop to love a mere artist?"
"Stoop, sir,—stoop! I know not what you mean. Think you so meanly of me as to believe I would sell myself for wealth and a title? Proud I may be—but not, I thank God, mercenary nor mean. And what a lofty, noble spirit is that of your friend! What lord or duke could match the height of his intellect or the gorgeousness of his imagination. Oh, too soon my beautiful dream is broken!" and the young lady, all power of her usual self-restraint being lost, wept like a child upon the shoulder of her brother.
"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not," at length said the squire, tenderly raising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is in danger. And so that you reallyhavelost your hard little heart to my noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soon recovered—or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheer up! All will go well."
The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look.
"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"
"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in love with your foolish face—it's just like her!—and that's all about it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot—you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dewin those morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make a day of it."
That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time.