Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848. Various
lyre of widest range,
Touched by all passion – did fall down and glance
From tone to tone, and glided through all change of liveliest utterance."
Her hair was of the darkest shade of brown, resting in soft wave-like smoothness above her high, pale forehead. Alas! that she was so lovely! had she been less so, either I might not have loved her, or I might have been permitted by fortune to have been happy with her.
After leaving college, my time was all devoted to Helen. She loved me no less than I loved her; and I looked forward to a quiet and happy life, picturing the future with colorings of the brightest hope and joyfulness.
It was at this time that my brother returned from a long tour of the Continent. He was one of the handsomest men of the day, and had been distinguished by the appellation which had accompanied him from court to court, of "the handsome Englishman." He was of a medium stature, and faultlessly proportioned; his expansive and intellectual forehead seemed the seat of lofty thought, and his dark flashing eye, intensely expressive, seemed to penetrate to the heart of all who met its glance. I see him now – not in his glorious beauty, but pale – pale, touched by the cold fingers of death.
I had too much of the pride of my race to live as a dependent on my brother's bounty, yet I could not bear the thought of leaving Helen. I was in no situation to marry, and in an undecided state of mind I suffered the days to glide away.
My brother had just come back from a day's angling in the trout-stream that flowed through his lands. He met me at the park-gate.
"Well, John," said I, "what luck to-day?"
"O, William," said he, without heeding my question, "I have seen the most charming girl – the loveliest one that breathes. She outvies all I have seen in my travels; do you know her. She is the curate's daughter."
I felt a sickness at heart, like the bitterness of death – was it a presentiment, a warning of evil to come.
"Say, William?"
"Yes – yes, she is lovely."
"She is an angel."
Sir John passed into the park, and I proceeded, with a strange melancholy I could not dispel, to meet Helen. She was at her father's door, and greeted me with her accustomed kindness of voice and manner.
"Why are you so sad this lovely evening William?"
"Sad! – am I sad?"
"You look so."
"Well, I will be so no longer, then;" and I endeavored to shake off my depression, but not succeeding, I bade her farewell at an earlier hour than was my custom.
From that day my brother's angling excursions became more frequent – but he seldom returned with a full basket. He often spoke to me of Helen, but I always replied carelessly, and changed the topic of conversation to something else, yet when alone, I was in continual torment from my thoughts. I endeavored to console myself with the reflection that Helen's love was plighted to me, and that she would not change, yet my thoughts were continually recurring to my brother's great advantages over me in every respect, not only in fortune but in personal appearance; and I had already, in my suspicions, placed him in the light of a rival for the hand of Helen. I knew his high-minded and honorable disposition too well to fancy for a moment that he would attempt her ruin; and I also knew that there was nothing in the inferior station of Helen's family that would prevent him from seeking her hand in marriage, if she had compelled his love.
All that followed might perhaps have been prevented had I at first told my brother frankly of my love for Helen; but a foolish desire to prove her love for me, and a certain feeling of self-respect kept me silent.
It was not a long time before I either saw, or fancied I saw, a change in the manner of Helen toward me – the thought was torture. I was for days undecided how to act, but at length determined to learn the true state of things. I knew my brother was often at the parsonage, and I trembled for the result.
"Helen," I asked her, "is not my brother a frequent visitor here?"
It was twilight, but I thought I observed a heightened color in her cheek.
"Yes, he has been here several times since his return."
"Dear Helen, answer me frankly, has he ever spoken to you of love?"
She hesitated, but at length replied,
"He has."
"And did you not tell him your vows were plighted to another?"
"My father entered the room before I made any reply at all."
"Helen, do you love me now the same as ever you have done?"
"You have my plighted word, William." Yet there was something bordering on coldness even in the sweet accents with which she spoke; the nice instinct of love detects each gradation of feeling with an unerring certainty. I was not satisfied, and when I left her, I was more unhappy than ever. I longed to speak to my brother on the subject, yet some indescribable feeling prevented me; and I allowed the days to glide away, growing more and more troubled in mind as they passed by.
I was now convinced that Helen's affection for me was not what it had been; and after a short interview with her, in which she had again repeated her love for me, but in such chilling tones that I felt it was not from the heart she spoke, I sought the chamber of my brother in a state almost bordering on madness. All of our race have been of ungovernable passions, but none more so than myself. I paused at his door to regain in some degree my self-command, then lifting the latch, I entered.
"Ah, brother!" said Sir John, in a cheerful tone.
"Yes, your younger brother," replied I, bitterly.
Sir John started with wonder.
"Why, William, what mean you?"
I paid no heed to the interruption, but continued growing, if possible, still more enraged as I proceeded.
"Are not all the broad lands of our family estate yours – its parks, its meadows, its streams; this venerable mansion, where the elder son has rioted for so many generations, leaving the younger to make his way in the world as best he may."
"Brother, are you mad? My purse is yours – I have nothing that is not yours."
"You have every thing, and not content with that, you have sought to win away the love of my affianced bride."
"Who mean you, William?"
"Helen Burnett."
My brother turned pale, and gazing upon me for a moment with astonishment, he heaved a deep sigh, and covered his face with his hands.
I folded my arms, and stood looking upon him scornfully, for my passion had made me consider him in the light of one who had knowingly stolen away my bride.
Sir John at length uncovered his face and spoke.
"I would to God, William, you had told me this sooner."
"Is it then too late?" I inquired, bitterly.
"Too late – too late for my happiness, but not too late for justice and honor. She is yours, William, I resign all pretensions to her hand, and will cease to visit the parsonage."
I was touched by the generous spirit of my brother, and by the mournful shadow which clouded his noble brow. I have ever acted from impulse, and seizing him by the hand, I said,
"Not so, John – not so! She is, as I have told you, my affianced bride; her solemn and oft-repeated vows are mine, and I have thought that her love was forever mine; but this very night I plainly perceived that a change has been wrought in her feelings. She treated me with coldness instead of warmth, and maddened by my interview with her, I rushed into your presence, and have blamed you unjustly."
"My dear brother – "
"No, no, John, I was wrong to accuse you. I should have better known your nobleness. Henceforth let us stand on equal ground; I do not want an unwilling bride, and if you can win her love from me, take her, though it drive me mad."
A gleam of pleasure passed over