Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848

"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 against the 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 elegant trousseau for 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 with one 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. You were mentioned as a visiter after his death; your generous offer 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.

"I shall leave 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.

A VOICE FOR POLAND

BY WM. H. C. HOSMERUp, 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.

TO HER WHO CAN UNDERSTAND IT

BY MAYNE REIDThey 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 while you live.

A PIC-NIC IN OLDEN TIME

BY QUEVEDO[SEE ENGRAVING.]

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 family fêtes champêtres of 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? —her heart, 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."

"A fête thus 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.