Yesterday we were more than usually still after the enjoyment of
Christmas, and a little quiet chit-chat seemed all of which we were
capable, but to-day every thing about us and within us began to settle
into its usual form, and this evening there was a general call for our
accustomed entertainment. I was inexorable to all entreaties, and Mr.
Arlington was compelled to open his portfolio for our gratification.
"Select your subject," he said with a smile, as he drew forth sketch
after sketch and spread them on the table before us. "I have no story to
tell of any of them."
"I select this," said Annie, as she held up a drawing, entitled, "The
Exiled Hebrews."
"Ah!" said Mr. Arlington, as he glanced at it, "you have chosen well;
the subject is interesting."
"But can you really tell us nothing of these figures, so noble yet so
touching in their aspect?"
"No; nothing of _them_. I could tell you indeed of a _dying_ Hebrew,
whose portrait you may imagine you have before you in that turbaned old
gentleman."
"Well, let us hear it."
THE DYING HEBREW.
A HEBREW knelt in the dying light,
His eye was dim and cold,
The hair on his brow was silver white,
And his blood was thin and old.
He lifted his eye to his latest sun,
For he felt that his pilgrimage was done,
And as he saw God's shadow[3] there,
His spirit pour'd itself in prayer.
"I come unto Death's second birth
Beneath a stranger air,
A pilgrim on a chill, cold earth,
As all my fathers were;
And _men_ have stamp'd me with a _curse_,
I feel it is not _Thine_.
Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made
On me, as all to shine;
And therefore dare I lift mine eye
Through that to Thee, before I die.
In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose altars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp that ceaselessly
Lights up Thine own true shrine,
Take this my latest sacrifice,
Look down and make this sod
Holy as that where long ago
The Hebrew met his God.
I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimm'd the orphan's eye,
I have not stain'd the virgin's years,
Nor mock'd the mourner's cry.
The songs of Zion in my ear
Have ever been most sweet,
And always when I felt Thee near,
My shoes were 'off my feet.'
I have known Thee in the whirlwind,
I have known Thee on the hill,
I have known Thee in the voice of birds,
In the music of the rill.
I dreamt Thee in the shadow,
I saw Thee in the light,
I heard Thee in the thunder-peal,
And worshipp'd in the night.
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my heart rejoice,
And my spirit bow'd within itself
To hear 'Thy still, small voice.'
I have not felt myself a thing
Far from Thy presence driven,
By flaming sword or waving wing
Cut off from Thee and heaven.
Must I the whirlwind reap, because,
My fathers sow'd the storm?
Or shrink because another sinn'd,
Beneath Thy red, right arm?
Oh! much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown,
I will not take my _curse_ from _man_,
I turn to THEE alone.
Oh! bid my fainting spirit live,
And what is dark, reveal,
And what is evil--oh, forgive!
And what is broken--heal.
And cleanse my spirit from above,
In the deep Jordan of Thy love!
I know not if the Christian's heaven
Shall be the same as mine,
I only ask to be forgiven,
And taken home to THINE.
I weary on a far, dim strand,
Whose mansions are as tombs,
And long to find the Father-land,
Where there are many homes.
Oh! grant of all yon shining throngs
Some dim and distant star,
Where Judah's lost and scatter'd sons
May worship from afar!
When all earth's myriad harps shall meet
In choral praise and prayer,
Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,
Alone be wanting there?
Yet place me in the lowest seat,
Though I, as now, lie there,
The Christian's jest--the Christian's scorn,
Still let me see and hear,
From some bright mansion in the sky,
Thy loved ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,
And beautiful as a lovely dream,
And silently as air,
The vision of a dark-eyed girl
With long and raven hair,
Glides in as guardian spirits glide,
And lo! is standing by his side,
As if her sudden presence there
Was sent in answer to his prayer.
Oh! say they not that angels tread
Around the good man's dying bed?
His child--his sweet and sinless child,
And as he gazed on her,
He knew his God was reconciled,
And this the messenger.
As sure as God had hung on high
His promise-bow before his eye,
Earth's purest hopes were o'er him flung,
To point his heaven-ward faith,
And life's most holy feelings strung
To sing him into death.
And on his daughter's stainless breast,
The dying Hebrew sought his rest.[4]
"Have I fulfilled my task?" asked Mr. Arlington, as he touched the
picture on which Annie's eyes were still fixed.
"By no means," she answered; "the poem is beautiful; but is the drawing
from your own pencil?"
"Oh, no! It is a copy of a copy. The original is by Biederrmanns, and
may be seen, I believe, in the Dresden Gallery. This sketch was made
from a copy in the possession of my friend, Mr. Michael Grahame. He had
it done while he was in Russia. By-the-by--if I had Aunt Nancy's powers
as a _raconteur_, I think I could interest you in the history of Mr. and
Mrs. Grahame."
"Let us have it," exclaimed Col. Donaldson; "we will be lenient in our
criticisms; and should we ever call on you to give it to severer
critics, Aunt Nancy will dress it up for you."
Mr. Arlington in vain sought to excuse himself.
"It is of no use," cried Col. Donaldson; "I am a thoroughbred story
hunter, and now you have shown me the game, I must have it."
To Mr. Arlington, therefore, the reader is indebted for the following
incidents, though I have fulfilled the promise made for me by the
Colonel, and dressed it up a little for its present appearance. I have
called the narrative thus prepared,
"ONLY A MECHANIC."
With beauty, wealth, an accomplished education, and a home around which
clustered all the warm affections and graceful amenities of life, Lilian
Devoe was considered by her acquaintances as one of fortune's most
favored children. Yet in Lilian's bright sky there was a cloud, though
it was perceptible to none but herself. She was the daughter of an
Englishman, who, on his arrival in America with a sickly wife and infant
child, had esteemed himself fortunate in obtaining the situation of
farm-steward, or bailiff, at Mr. Trevanion's country-seat, near
New-York.
"This is a pleasant home, Gerald," said Mrs. Devoe, on the day she took
possession of her small but neat cottage, as she stood with him beneath
a porch embowered with honey-suckle, and looked out upon a scene to
which hill and dale and river combined to give enchantment.
"If you can be well and happy in it, love, I will try and forget that I
had a right to a better," said Gerald Devoe, with a grave yet tender
smile, as he drew his invalid wife close to his side.
Grave, Gerald Devoe always was; and none wondered at it who knew his
early history. His family belonged to the gentry of England, and he had
been born to an inheritance sufficient to support him respectably in
that class. His mother, from whom he derived a sound judgment, and a
firm and vigorous mind, died while he was yet a child, leaving his weak
and self-indulgent father to the management of a roguish attorney, by
whose aid he made the future maintain the present, till, at his death,
little was left to Gerald beyond the bare walls of his paternal home and
the small park by which it was surrounded. He had been, for two years
before this time, married to one who had brought him little wealth, and
whose delicate health seemed to demand the luxuries which he could no
longer afford. For her sake, far more than for his own--even more than
for that of his cherished child--he shrank from the new condition under
which life was presenting itself to him. When at length his resources
utterly failed, and he could no longer veil the truth from his wife, her
gentle tender smile, her confiding caress, and above all, her ready
inquiry into his plans for the future, and her earnest effort to aid him
in bringing the chaos of his mind into order, taught him that there lies
in woman's affections a source of strength equal to all the requirements
of those who have won their way to that hidden fountain. It was by her
advice that, instead of wasting his energies in the vain struggle to
maintain his present position, he determined to carve out for himself a
new life in another land. The first step towards the fulfilment of this
resolution was also the most painful. It was the sacrifice of his home,
the home of his childhood, his youth, his manhood, with which all that
was dear in the present or tender in the past was associated. And yet
higher claims it had. It had been the home of his fathers. For three
hundred years those walls had owned a Devoe for their master, and now
they must pass into a stranger's hands, and he and his must go forth
with no right even to a grave in that soil which had seemed ever an
inalienable part of himself. It was a stern lesson, but life teaches
well, and it was learned. He could not turn to the liberal professions
for support, because he had no means of maintaining himself and his
family during the preparatory studies. Of farming he knew already
something, and spent some months in acquiring yet further information
respecting it, before he sailed from England. The determination and
energy with which Gerald Devoe had entered on his new career, had won
for him friends among practical men, and when he left England it was
with recommendations that insured his success.
It was a fortunate circumstance for Mr. and Mrs. Devoe that Mr.
Trevanion required a farm-steward on their arrival, for in him and his
wife they found liberal employers, and persons of true Christian
benevolence, who, having discovered the superiority of their minds and
manners to their present station, hesitated not to receive them into
their circle of friends, when a knowledge of their past history had
acquainted them with their claims on their sympathy. Howsoever valuable
the friendship of persons at once so accomplished and so excellent was
to Mr. and Mrs. Devoe, for their own sakes, they prized it yet more for
their Lilian's. She was their only child, and their poverty lost its
last sting when they saw her linked arm in arm with young Anna
Trevanion, the companion of her lessons and her sports. They could not
have borne to see her, so lovely in outward form, and with a mind so
full of intelligence, condemned either to the dreariness of a life
without companionship, or to the degradation of association with the
rude and uncultivated. That this feeling was wholly unconnected with any
false views of their own position, or vain estimation of the claims
derived from their birth and former condition, was evident from their
readiness to receive into their friendly regards those in their present
sphere in whose moral qualities they could confide, and who did not
repel their courtesies by a rude and coarse manner. There was one of
this latter class who held a place in their esteem not less exalted than
that occupied by Mr. Trevanion himself. This was a Scotchman, living
within two miles of Mr. Trevanion's seat, who found at once an agreeable
occupation and a respectable support in a garden, from which he supplied
the markets of New-York with some of their choicest vegetables, and its
drawing-rooms with some of their choicest bouquets. Mr. Grahame was one
who, in those early ages when physical endowments constituted the chief
distinction between men, might have been chosen king of the tribe with
which he had chanced to be associated. Even now, in this self-styled
enlightened age, his tall and stalwart frame, his erect carriage, his
firm and vigorous step, his broad, commanding brow, his bright, keen
eye, and the firm, frank expression of his whole face, won from every
beholder an involuntary feeling of respect, which further acquaintance
only served to deepen. With little of the education of schools, he was a
man of reading, and, what schools can never make, he was a man of
thought, and of that sober, practical good sense, and those firm,
religious principles which are the surest, the only true and safe guides
in life. Mrs. Grahame was a gentle and lovely woman, with an eye to see
and a heart to feel her husband's excellences. And a worthy son of such
a father was Michael Grahame, the only child of this excellent pair. He
was six years older than Lilian Devoe, and having no sister of his own,
had been her playfellow and protector from her cradle. Even Anna
Trevanion could not rival Michael in Lilian's heart, nor all the
luxuries of Trevanion Hall compete with the delight of wandering with
him through the gardens of Mossgiel, listening to his history of the
various plants--for Michael had learned from his father where most of
them had first been found, and how and by whom they had been introduced
to their present abodes--and learning from him the chief points of
distinction between the different tribes of the vegetable world, and
many other things of which older people are often ignorant. But
acquainted as Michael was with the inhabitants of the garden, they did
not afford him his most vivid enjoyment. Mechanical pursuits were his
passion.
Before Lilian was four years old, she had ridden in a carriage of his
construction, which he boasted the most unskilful hand on the most
unequal road could not, except from _malice prepense_, upset. To see
Michael a clergyman, or, if that might not be, a lawyer, was Mrs.
Grahame's dream of life; but when she whispered it to her husband, he
shook his head, with a grave smile, and pointed to the boy, who stood
near, putting the finishing touch to what he called his "magical glass."
This was the case of an old spy-glass, in which he had so disposed
several mirrors, made of a toilet-glass long since broken, as to enable
the person using the instrument to see objects in a very different
direction from that to which it appeared to be directed. The fond
parents watched his movements in silence for a few minutes: suddenly he
called in a glad voice, "Here, father, come and look through my magical
glass."
Mr. Grahame obeyed the summons, saying to his wife, "He'll make a good
mechanic--better not spoil that, for a poor clergyman or lawyer."
Michael had the advantage of the best schools to which his father could
gain access; and his teachers joined in declaring that his father might
make what he would of him, but his own inclination for mechanics
continued as fixed as ever, and Mr. Grahame was equally fixed in his
determination to let his inclination decide his career.
"Let him be what he will, he must be something above the ordinary, or
your high people will remember against him that his father was a
gardener," said Mr. Grahame to his wife; "and you may be sure he'll rise
highest in what he loves."
At sixteen Michael Grahame commenced his apprenticeship to the trade of
a mathematical instrument maker, to the perfect satisfaction of himself
and his father, the secret annoyance of his mother, and the openly
expressed chagrin of Lilian Devoe, who had shared all Mrs. Grahame's
ambitious hopes for her friend. From this period Lilian became the
inseparable companion of the young Trevanions, their only rival in her
heart being removed from her circle. She still considered Michael as
greatly superior to them, and indeed to all others, in personal
attributes, but she could seldom enjoy his society, since he resided in
the city; and as she approached to womanhood, and he exchanged the
vivacity of the boy for the man's thoughtful brow and more controlled
expression of feeling, their manner in their occasional interviews
assumed a formality which made it a poor interpreter of her heart's true
emotions.
At seventeen Lilian Devoe was an orphan, left to the guardianship of Mr.
Trevanion and Mr. Grahame, with a fortune which secured to her a
prospect of all the comforts, and many of the elegancies of life. This
fortune was the result of a successful speculation made by Mr. Devoe
about a year before his death, with the little sum, which, by judicious
management, he had saved from his salary during many years. It was a sum
too small to secure to his daughter a maintenance in case of his death,
and with a trembling and almost despairing heart he had thrown it on the
troubled sea of speculation. From that hour he knew no peace. His life
was probably shortened by his anxieties, and when he received the
assurance of the successful issue of his experiment, he had but a few
days to live. Before his death, Mr. Trevanion had spoken very kindly to
him, and both he and Mrs. Trevanion had expressed the most friendly
interest in Lilian, and had offered to receive her as a member of their
own family, when her "home should be left unto her desolate." Mr.
Grahame and his kind-hearted wife had already made the same offer, and
Mr. Devoe, with the warmest expression of gratitude, commended his
daughter to the guardianship of both his friends. It was winter when Mr.
Devoe died--the Trevanions were in the city, and, by her own wish,
Lilian passed the first few months of her orphanage at the cottage of
Mr. Grahame. Never was an orphan more tenderly received, more dearly
cherished.
Michael Grahame had now acquired his trade, and had entered into an
already established and profitable business with his former master, who
predicted that with his application, and his unusual talent and his
delight both in the theory of mechanics and the actual development of
that theory in practice, he must one day acquire a high reputation.
Perhaps this opinion might have been in some degree shaken by the long
and frequent holidays of his young partner during this winter. Michael
had never been so much at home since he left it, a boy of sixteen, and
before the winter had passed, all formality between him and Lilian had
vanished. Again they wandered together, as in childhood, through the
garden walks; again Lilian learned to regard him, not only as a loved
friend, but as a guide and protector.
Mrs. Grahame saw the growth of these feelings with delight. She loved
Lilian, and gave the highest proof of her esteem for her, in believing
her worthy of her son. Mr. Grahame was less satisfied. He, too, loved
Lilian, and would have welcomed her to his heart as a daughter, but her
lately acquired fortune, and her connection with the Trevanion family,
gave her a right to higher expectations in marriage, than to become the
wife of a mechanic of very moderate fortunes, howsoever great was his
ability, or howsoever distinguished his personal qualities. No--Mr.
Grahame was not satisfied, and nothing but his confidence in Michael
kept him silent. The confidence was not misplaced.
The news of Lilian's fortune, and of Mr. and Mrs. Trevanion's offer to
receive her into their family, had sent a sharp pang through the heart
of Michael Grahame, which had taught him the true character of his
attachment to her.
"She is removed from my world--she can be nothing to me now," was the
first stern whisper of his heart, which was modified after two or three
interviews into--"She can only be a dear friend and sister. I must never
think of her in any other light." And, devoted as he had been to her
through the winter, no word, no look had told of love less calm or more
exacting than this. But there came a time when the quick blush on
Lilian's cheek at his approach, the tremor of her little hand as he
clasped it, told that she shared his feeling, without his power of
self-control. Then came the hour of trial to Michael Grahame's nature.
Self-immolation were easy in comparison with the infliction of one pang
on her. And wherefore should either suffer? Was it not a false sentiment
that denied to her the right to decide for herself, between those shows
and fashions which the world most prizes, and the indulgence of the
purest and sweetest affections of our nature? Was he not in truth
sacrificing her happiness to his own pride? It was a question which he
dared not answer for himself, and he applied to his father, in whose
high principles and clear judgment he placed implicit confidence. Mr.
Grahame was too shrewd, and in this case too interested an observer to
be unprepared for his son's avowal of his past feelings and present
perplexities.
"You are right, my son," he replied to his appeal; "It is Lilian's right
to decide for herself on that which will constitute her own happiness."
"Then I may speak to her--I may tell her--"
"All you desire that she should know," said Mr. Grahame, gently, "when
Lilian has had an opportunity of knowing what she must sacrifice in
accepting you."
"True--true--I will ask no promise from her--nay--I will accept none--I
will only assure her that should the world fail to fill her heart, the
truest and most devoted love awaits her here."
"And in listening to that assurance, without rebuking it, a delicate
woman would feel that she had pledged herself."
Michael Grahame's brow contracted, and his voice faltered slightly as,
after a moment's thoughtful pause, he asked, "What then would you have
me do?"
"Nothing at present--Lilian will soon leave us, and at Mr. Trevanion's
she will see quite another kind of life--a life which, with her fortune
and their friendship, may be hers, but which she must give up should she
become the wife of a mechanic and the daughter-in-law of a gardener. Let
her see this life, my boy, and then let her choose between you and it."
"And how can I hope that she will continue to regard me with kindness if
I suffer her to depart without any expression of interest in her?"
"Any expression of interest! I do not wish you to be colder to her than
you have hitherto been, and I am much mistaken if Lilian would exchange
your _brotherly_ affection for all the gewgaws in life."
"I will endeavor to take your advice, but I hope I shall not be tried
too long," were the concluding words of Michael Grahame, as he turned
from his father to seek composure in a solitary walk. When he had
returned, he found that his father had gone to the city--an unusual
circumstance at that season, and one which he could not afterwards avoid
connecting with a letter which Lilian received the next day from Anna
Trevanion, before she had risen from the breakfast table.
"Papa," wrote Miss Trevanion, "has made me perfectly happy, dear Lilian,
by declaring that he cannot consent to leave you longer in the country.
I hope you will not find it very difficult to obey his commands in the
present instance, which are, that you shall be ready at noon to-morrow
to accompany him to the city, where you will find Mamma and your Anna,
waiting to receive you with open arms."
"What is the matter, Lilian? Does your letter bring you bad news?" asked
Mrs. Grahame, as she saw the dejected countenance with which Lilian sat
gazing on these few lines.
Michael said nothing, but, as Lilian looked up to answer Mrs. Grahame,
she saw that his eyes were fixed upon her, and the blood rushed to her
temples, while she said, "It is only a note from Anna Trevanion, to say
that her father is coming for me to-day at noon,--and--and--" Lilian
could go no farther--her voice faltered, and she burst into tears.
Michael Grahame started from his chair, but a movement of his father's
arm prevented his approaching Lilian, and unable to endure the scene, he
rushed from the room, while his mother, folding the weeping girl in her
arms, exclaimed, "Don't cry, Lilian, Mr. Trevanion will not certainly
make you go with him, if you do not wish it."
"Hush, hush, good wife," said the kind but firm voice of Mr. Grahame;
"Lilian must not be so ungracious to such friends as Mr. and Mrs.
Trevanion, as to refuse to go to them when they wish her. Go, my dear
child," he continued, laying his hand on her bent head; "and remember
that no day will be so happy for us as that in which you come back--if
indeed," he added, more gayly, "you can come back to such an humble
home, after living among great folks."
There was another voice for which Lilian listened, but she listened in
vain. Her first feeling on perceiving that Michael Grahame had left the
room while she lay weeping in his mother's arms was very bitter, but
Mrs. Grahame soothed her by saying, "Michael couldn't bear to see you
crying, dear, so when his father wouldn't let him speak to you, he
jumped up and ran off. Poor Michael! sadly enough he'll miss you."
In about an hour, Michael again sought Lilian, bringing with him three
bouquets of hot-house flowers. Two of these had been arranged by his
father for Mrs. and Miss Trevanion, and the other was of flowers which
he had himself selected for Lilian. She stood beside him while he first
wrapped the stems of the flowers in a wet sponge, and then put them into
a box, to defend them from the cold. This was done, and the box handed
to Lilian without a word. As she took it, she asked in a low tone, and
turning away to hide her embarrassment as she spoke, "When shall I see
you in New-York?"
"I shall be in New-York very soon," he replied; "perhaps to-morrow--but
we move there in such different spheres, Lilian, that I do not know when
we shall meet."
"Perhaps never," said Lilian, endeavoring, not very successfully, to
steady her voice and speak with _nonchalance_, "unless you are willing
to leave what you call your sphere and seek me in mine."
"I only need your permission to do so with delight,"--and so charming
had her evident emotion made her in his eyes, that Michael could not
refrain from pressing her hand to his lips. There was no anger in the
flush which this action brought to Lilian's cheek.
Mr. Trevanion was punctual to the hour of his appointment, and descended
from his carriage only to hand Lilian into it.
"You will call sometimes to see how your ward does," he said
good-humoredly to the elder Mr. Grahame, but to Michael not a word. He
had determined to discourage, and, if possible, completely to overthrow
any intimacy which Mr. Grahame had acknowledged to him was not
unattended with danger. Mr. Trevanion was a man of liberal mind, yet he
was not wholly free from the prejudices of his class, which made the
highest happiness the result of the highest social position. There is in
the mind of man so unconquerable a desire for the unattainable, that it
is not wonderful perhaps that this opinion should be entertained by
those who do not occupy that position; but to those who do, we should
suppose its fallacy would stand out too glaringly to be doubted or
denied. We are far from denying the advantages of rank and wealth: but
we view them not as an end, but as a means for the attainment of an end,
and that end, not happiness, except as happiness is indissolubly
connected with the perfection of our own powers, and with the extension
of our usefulness to others. He who, like Michael Grahame, can command
the means of intellectual cultivation and refinement, and a fair arena
for the exercise of his powers, when thus cultivated, need not envy the
possessor of larger fortune and higher station with his weightier
responsibilities and greater temptations.
Michael Grahame understood Mr. Trevanion's coolness, but he was not one
to retreat from an unfought field. Three days had scarcely given to
Lilian the feeling of ease in her new home, when he called on her. He
had chosen morning, as the hour when others would be the least likely to
dispute her attention with him. She was at home--Mrs. and Miss Trevanion
were out--and a long _tête-à-tête_ almost reconciled him to her new
abode. He had not forgotten his father's advice, nor taken the seal
from his lips. He might not speak to her of love, but the nicest honor
did not forbid him to show her the true sympathy and affection of a
friend. In a few days he called again, and at the same hour; Miss Devoe
was not at home, she had gone out with Mrs. and Miss Trevanion. Again
the next day he came at the same hour, and the answer was the same. He
called in the afternoon at five o'clock, and she was at dinner; at seven
o'clock, she was preparing for an evening party, and begged he would
excuse her. "I will seek no more," said Michael Grahame at length, with
proud determination, "to enter the charmed circle which shuts her from
me in the city. They cannot keep her to themselves always, and if
Lilian's heart be what I deem it, it will take more than a few months of
absence to efface from it the memories of years."
A few days only after this determination, Lilian was called down at nine
o'clock in the morning, to see Mr. Grahame. Early as it was, the furtive
glance towards her mirror and the hasty adjustment of her ringlets,
might have suggested to an observer, that she hoped to receive in her
visitor one who had an eye for beauty; and the sudden change that passed
over her countenance as she entered the parlor in which her two
guardians sat in earnest talk, would have awakened strong suspicions
that she did not see _the Mr. Grahame_ whom she had expected. Mr.
Trevanion rose as she entered, and shaking hands with Mr. Grahame, said
kindly, "I leave you with Lilian, Mr. Grahame, but I hope to see you
again at dinner--we dine at five."
"Thank you, sir, but I hope to be taking tea with my good woman at home
at that hour."
"Well, I shall hope to see you again soon--you must call often and see
your friend Lilian."
"Why, I've been thinking, sir, that that would hardly be best for any of
us--and to tell the truth, I came to-day to talk with Lilian about that
very thing, and if you please, I have no objection that you should hear
what I have to say."
Mr. Trevanion seated himself again, and Lilian placing herself on the
sofa beside him, Mr. Grahame resumed:--"It seems to me, sir, that Lilian
has to choose between two kinds of life, which, should she try to put
them together will only spoil one another, and I want her to have a fair
chance to judge between them. Now, you know, sir, I speak the truth when
I say that there are many among the fine gay people whom Lilian will
meet at your house, who would look down upon her for having such friends
as I and my wife, or even my son, though President B---- says he will be
a distinguished man yet."
"I do not care for such people, or for what they think," exclaimed
Lilian indignantly.
"I dare say not, my dear child, and yet they are people who are thought
a great deal of, and whom, if you are to live amongst them, it would be
worth your while to please--but that isn't my main point, Lilian. What I
want to say, though I seem to be long coming at it, is, that I want you
to see this gay life that fine folks in the city lead, at its
best--without any such drawbacks as it would have for you, if you were
suspected of having ungenteel acquaintances, and so we shall none of us
come to see you--barring you should be sick, or something else happen to
make you want us--until you make a fair trial, for six months at least,
of this life--then should the beautiful, rich Miss Devoe like the old
gardener and his family well enough to come and see them, she will learn
how fondly and truly they love their Lilian."
"I had hoped you loved her too well to give her up so needlessly for six
months, or even for one month," said Lilian, tears rushing to her eyes.
"Ask Mr. Trevanion if I am not right in what I have said, my dear
child," said Mr. Grahame tenderly.
"I will not dispute the correctness of your principles in the main, Mr.
Grahame, but I hope you do not think that all Lilian's _fine_
acquaintances as you call them, would be so unjust in their judgment as
to think the less of her for her love of you, or to undervalue you on
account of your position in life."
"No sir--no sir--I don't think so of all--but I want Lilian to see this
life without even one little cloud upon it--such a cloud as the being
looked down upon, though it were by people she didn't greatly admire,
would make. We have our pride too, sir, and we want Lilian to try for
herself whether our friendship, with all its good and its bad, be worth
keeping. She is too good and affectionate, we know, to shake off old
friends that love her, even if they become troublesome--but we will draw
ourselves off, and then she will be free to come back to us or not, as
she pleases. Now, sir, tell me frankly, if you think me wrong."
"Not wrong in principle, as I said before, Mr. Grahame, but--excuse
me--you required me to be frank--would it not have been better to have
made this withdrawal gradually and quietly, in such a manner that Lilian
would not have noticed it, instead of giving her the pain of this abrupt
severance of the ties between you?"
"A great deal better, sir," said Mr. Grahame, coloring with wonderful
feeling, and fixing his clear, keen eye full on Mr. Trevanion,--"a great
deal better if I wished to sever those ties--a great deal better if I
would have Lilian believe that we had grown cold and indifferent to her.
But, my dear child," and he turned to her, and taking both her hands,
spoke very earnestly--"believe me, when I tell you, that you will find
few among those who see you every day, that love you so warmly as the
friends who have loved you from your birth, and who now stand away from
you only because they will not be in the way of what the world considers
higher fortunes for you if you desire them. To leave you free to choose
for yourself, is the strongest proof of love we could give you, and I
repeat, when you have tried all that this new life has to give
you--tried it for six months--if your heart still turns with its old
love to those early friends, you will give them joy indeed."
Mr. Grahame paused, but neither Mr. Trevanion nor Lilian attempted to
reply to him for some minutes--at length she raised her eyes, and said,
"You did not think of this when I left you--what has changed your
mind--I will not say your _heart_--towards me?"
"You are right not to say our hearts, Lilian; but, indeed, even my mind
has not been changed--I thought then as I think now--but I could not
persuade others of our family to think with me. Now, however, they all
feel that they cannot keep up their old friendly intercourse with you
without mortification to themselves, and pain to you. And, as I said
before, we were none of us willing to withdraw from that intercourse
without giving you our reasons for it, lest you should think we had
grown indifferent to you."
Mr. Grahame soon departed, leaving Lilian saddened and Mr. Trevanion
perplexed by his visit. "Singular old man!" this gentleman exclaimed to
himself more than once, in reflecting on all that Mr. Grahame had said;
so difficult is it for those whose minds have been forced into the
strait forms of conventionalism to comprehend the dictates of
untrammelled common sense, on points which that conventionalism
undertakes to control. One thing at least Mr. Trevanion did
comprehend--that on the succeeding six months depended Lilian's choice
of her position and associates for life.
"So far Mr. Grahame is right Lilian," he said to her, "you cannot have a
place at once in two such different spheres as his and ours. I always
knew that to be impossible."
"You called my father friend," said Lilian, with unusual boldness.
"Your father was a gentleman by birth and breeding."
"And he has told me," persisted Lilian, "that he has never known more
true refinement and even nobility of mind than in Mr. Grahame."
"I agree with him--of _mind_, mark--but there is a want of conventional
refinement which would make itself felt in society."
"There is no want even of this in his son," said Lilian with a trembling
voice, and turning away to hide the blush that burned upon her cheek.
"Probably not, for Michael Grahame has been for years at the best
schools, with the sons of our first families--but we cannot separate him
from his father, and from the associates which his trade has given him."
Neither Mr. Trevanion nor Lilian ever spoke on this subject again; but
the former resolved that no effort should be lost on his part to restore
one so beautiful and so accomplished as his young ward to what he
considered her true place in society, and the latter was as firmly
determined that nothing should make her forgetful of the friends of her
childhood. In furtherance of this resolve, Mr. Trevanion, instead of
retiring to his country-seat with his family on the approach of summer,
sent his younger children thither under the care of their faithful and
intelligent nurse; and with Mrs. and Miss Trevanion, and Lilian, set out
for Saratoga, at that season the great focus of fashion. Mrs. Trevanion,
entering fully into his designs, had attended to Lilian's equipments for
this important campaign, with no less care than to Anna's, and the
result equalled their fondest expectations. Lilian was _the beauty_,
_the heiress_, the belle of the season. Report exaggerated her fortune,
appended all sorts of romantic incidents to her history and her
connection with the Trevanions, and thus increased the interest which
her own beauty and modest elegance was calculated to awaken. Admirers
crowded around her, and to render her triumph complete, one who had
hitherto found no charms in America worthy his homage, bowed at her
shrine. This was Mr. Derwent, an Englishman of high birth and large
fortune, whose elegant exterior, and the perfect _savoir faire_ which
marked his manners, made him at Saratoga,
"The observed of all observers,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form."
Mr. Trevanion looked on with scarcely concealed delight.
"Why, father! do you wish to see Lilian leave us for England?" cried
Anna Trevanion, to whom he had expressed his satisfaction.
"Certainly, my daughter, if only in that way I can see her take that
position which is hers by inheritance, and from which only her father's
misfortunes have estranged her."
But Mr. Trevanion's hopes of so desirable a termination of his cares for
Lilian faded, as he saw the reserve with which she met the attentions of
her admirers--not excepting even the admired Mr. Derwent.
"Among the beauties at this place, Miss L---- D----, the ward of Mr.
T----, stands unrivalled. She is an heiress as well as a beauty, but the
report is that both the fortune and the beauty are to be borne to
another land, in the possession of the Honorable Mr. D----, whose
personal qualities, united to his station and fortune, render him, in
the opinion of the ladies at least, irresistible."
Such was the paragraph in a New-York daily paper, which Mr. Trevanion
one morning handed to Lilian with a smile. She read it silence, and laid
it down without a comment, except that which was furnished by the proud
erection of her figure, and the almost scornful curl of her lip.
When next she met Mr. Derwent, Mr. Trevanion's eye was on her, for he
thought, "She cannot preserve her perfect indifference of manner with
the consciousness that their names have been thus associated." He was
mistaken. The color on Lilian's cheek deepened not at Mr. Derwent's
approach, nor did her hand tremble as she laid it upon the arm he
offered in attending her to dinner. "Her heart must be already
occupied," said Mr. Trevanion to himself, and perhaps he was right in
believing that nothing but a deep and true affection--one which was
founded on no adventitious circumstances, but on the immovable basis of
esteem--could have enabled her to resist the blandishments which
surrounded her in her present position. But she did resist them, and
still, from the luxurious elegancies, the gay entertainments and the
flatteries of fashionable life, her heart turned with undiminished
tenderness to the tranquil shades of Mossgiel, and still paid there its
willing homage to the loftiest intellect and the noblest heart, in her
estimation, with which earth was blessed.
September, with its cool, invigorating freshness, had come, when Mr.
Trevanion's family returned to the city. To Lilian's great, though
unspoken disappointment, the children met them there, and no thought
seemed to be entertained of a visit to the country. Carefully she had
kept the date of Mr. Grahame's conversation, in which he had demanded
that she should make a six months' trial of life, freed from the
associations which her early poverty had fastened on her. In a few weeks
after her return to New-York, the six months were completed. On the day
preceding its exact completion, Lilian expressed to Mr. Trevanion her
wish to visit Mossgiel. "It is now six months," she said with a blush
and a smile, "since I saw Mr. Grahame."
Whatever might have been Mr. Trevanion's wishes for his ward, he had
neither the right nor the will to control her actions, and he not only
consented to her going, but went down with her himself to Trevanion
Hall, where they arrived late in the evening.
Lilian knew that the inhabitants of Mossgiel kept early hours, and the
gay pink and blue and white convolvuluses, which arched the rude gate
leading from the more public road into the rural lane by which their
house was approached, had just unfolded their petals, when she rode
through it on the morning succeeding her arrival at Trevanion Hall. She
had declined the attendance of a servant, and set off at a brisk canter,
but soon reined in her horse and proceeded at a slower pace. Hope and
fear were busy at her heart. Six months! What changes might not have
taken place in that time! Again Lilian touched her horse with her light
riding-whip, and rode briskly on till she reached the gate of which we
have spoken. Here she alighted to open the gate. As she entered the lane
she saw, not far in advance of her, a boy who had been hired to assist
Mr. Grahame in the garden. She called to him, and giving him her bridle
to lead her horse to the stable, walked on herself towards the house,
which was little more than a hundred yards distant. After walking a few
steps, she turned to ask, "Are Mr. and Mrs. Grahame well?"
Another question trembled on her lips--but she could not speak it. "If
_he_ love me, he will be here," she whispered to herself, and again
passed on. The road wound around the house, and led to the entrance on
the river front. There was a side gate leading to the garden, and there,
at that hour, Lilian knew she would most probably meet the elder Mr.
Grahame, while his wife was almost certain to be found in the dairy, to
which the same gate would give her access; but the gate was passed with
a light, quick step, and Lilian entered the house at the front. With a
fluttering heart, but a steady purpose, she passed on, without meeting
any one, or hearing a sound, to the usual morning room. The door was
open; she entered, and her heart throbbed exultingly, for _he_ was
there. Michael Grahame sat at a table writing. His back was towards the
door, and her light step had given no notice of her presence. Agitated
by a thousand commingled emotions, wishing, yet dreading to meet his
eye, she stood gazing on his face as it was reflected in an opposite
mirror. It seemed to her paler and graver than of yore. Manhood had
stamped its lines more deeply on the brow since last they parted. But
some movement, a sigh, perhaps, from her, has startled him. He raises
his head, and in the mirror their eyes meet. In that glance her whole
soul has been revealed, and with one glad cry of "Lilian! my Lilian!" he
turns, and she is folded in his arms.
There was no more doubt, no more fear, on her part--no concealment on
his. She had chosen freely and nobly, and she was rewarded by love as
deep, as devoted, and as unselfish as ever woman inspired, or man felt.
The marriage of Lilian, which took place in three months after her
return to Mossgiel, could not but excite some interest in the world in
which she had so lately occupied a conspicuous place. When, however, to
the great question--"Who is this Mr. Grahame?" the answer, "Nothing but
a mechanic," was received--the interest soon faded away, and in the
winter Lilian found herself in New-York, with scarcely an acquaintance,
except the Trevanions, and she could easily perceive that something of
pity was mingled with their former kindness. Yet never had Lilian been
less an object of pity. Every day increased not only her affection to
her husband, but her pride in him, by revealing to her more of his high
powers and noble qualities. Those powers had received a new spring from
his desire to prove himself worthy of his cherished wife. He had long
been occupied with a problem whose solution, he believed, would enable
him to increase greatly both the speed and safety of steam navigation.
In the early part of the winter succeeding his marriage, with a glad
spirit, with which Lilian fully sympathized, he cried "Eureka." Before
the winter concluded he had been to Washington, and explaining to the
officers of our own government the importance of his invention, sought
permission to test it on a government vessel. After many delays, with
that short-sighted policy which cannot look beyond the present expense
to the overpaying results, the proposition was declined. During his stay
in Washington, his object had become noised abroad, and the Russian
Minister had opened a correspondence with him and with his own court on
the subject. The result of this correspondence was, that in the
following spring Michael Grahame sailed for Russia, to test his
invention first in the service of its emperor. He was accompanied by
Lilian. Their departure and its object were talked of for awhile, but
soon ceased to be remembered, except by men of science, and those
immediately interested in the result of his experiment.
In the mean time Anna Trevanion married. Her husband, Mr. Walker, was a
man of large property, and of social position equal to her own. They
spent the first two years of their married life abroad. It was in the
second of these two years, and when Lilian had been four years in St.
Petersburgh, that Mr. and Mrs. Walker entered that city. One of their
first inquiries of the American Minister was, "What Americans are here?"
and at the head of the list he presented, stood Mr. and Mrs. Grahame.
"And who are Mr. and Mrs. Grahame?" asked Mr. Walker. "You say they are
from New-York, and I remember no such names of any consequence in
society there."
"I do not know what their consequence was there, but I assure you it is
as great here as the partiality of the Emperor, the favor of the
Imperial family, and their association with the highest rank, can make
it."
"But how did people unknown at home work themselves into such a
position?"
"They did not work themselves into it all--they took it at once, by the
only right which Americans have to any position abroad--the right of
their own fitness for it. Mr. Grahame, besides his high attainments in
science, and his skill in mechanics, which first introduced him to the
Emperor, is a man of fine appearance, of very extensive information, and
very agreeable manners, and Mrs. Grahame is one of the most beautiful
and cultivated women I know. I repeat, you cannot enter society here
under better auspices than theirs."
And thus the long-severed friends met in reversed positions; and if
something of triumph did flash from Lilian's eyes, as she saw her
husband, day after day, procuring from the Emperor's favor, privileges
for Mr. and Mrs. Walker, not often enjoyed by strangers, her triumph was
for him, and may be excused.
After eight years spent in Russia, during which he had acquired fortune
as well as fame, Michael Grahame returned to America, with his wife and
three lovely children, and retired to a beautiful country seat within a
mile of Mossgiel, purchased and furnished for him during his absence.
His father still cultivates his garden, though he has ceased to sell its
produce, and through those flowery walks Lilian and her husband still
delight to wander, recalling the happy memories with which they are
linked, with grateful and adoring hearts.
"I shall never object again to any woman in whom I am interested,
marrying the man of her choice, because he is only a mechanic," said
Mrs. Trevanion to her husband, as they were returning one day from a
visit to Mr. and Mrs. Grahame.
"There, my dear, in those words, _only a mechanic_, lies our mistake,
the world's mistake, in such matters. No man is _only_ what his trade,
his profession, or his position in life makes him. Every man is
something besides this, something by force of his own inherent personal
qualities. By these the true man is formed, and by these he should be
judged."