Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852

“Effect! poor maiden!” was the reply. “It was the last thing in her mind at that moment. She is a prisoner, brought hither by the Indians, for what purpose, originally, I know not. But whatever were his first intentions with regard to her, our father has abandoned them, and permitted me to treat her with the consideration due to her loveliness and her unhappy situation.” The announcement of company in the drawing-room here interrupted the conversation between the brother and sister.

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CHAPTER X

Lo! they muster – lord and lady —
Brow of pride and cheek of bloom,
Pointed beard and tresses shady —
Velvet robe and waving plume.

    Henry William Herbert.
Weeks passed on, and a round of festive entertainments took place in the mansion of Gen. Lincoln. In all these Charles Lincoln mingled with a discontented and gloomy air of abstraction.

Georgiana’s natural gayety seemed somewhat dimmed by this change in her brother. Their society consisted of the officers of the fort, but it was nevertheless of a kind to be grateful and pleasing to one of her temperament; and her predilections had furthermore been awakened in favor of a gallant young general in the service – so that there was still a source of interest to her unconnected with the brother, whose strange moodiness still gave her pain.

The fair colonist continued to decline mingling with the family, though with a gentle steadfastness that her friend might not at any time have found it difficult to disarm; but she did not insist, lest she should give pain to the sensitive nature of the timid and heart-sick stranger.

It was on a pleasant evening in June that, by the open window of Georgiana Lincoln’s apartment, Grace Bartlett was sitting languidly. Her thoughts were evidently of the past – for at intervals the faint color would fade from her cheeks, and an expression of deep mental pain pass over her countenance – her soft eyes assuming a fixed look, as if her remembrances were fraught with agony. As she sat in the dim twilight in that state, her thoughts broke forth into pensive song, and she almost unconsciously chanted the words,

Oh, the home of my childhood! my desolate heart!
Its merciless loss bids the warm tears to start.

Her voice gradually died away, and by degrees she closed her eyes and slumbered. And now naught was heard save the gentle breeze waving the branches outside the window near which she reclined. But ere her tones ceased, they had reached other ears.

Charles Lincoln had stretched his lazy length on one of the couches in the balcony below; and those musical tones came to him laden with associations of other days – of a brief but transient period of bliss. With a magic power they arrested his attention, and he continued to ponder on them long after they had ceased, until he was filled with an ardent curiosity to behold once more the young stranger of whom he had caught a glimpse on the evening of his return, and whose position in his father’s house had afterward been described to him by his sister.

Whilst his curiosity was thus at work, his sister approached him, accompanied by the young officer above referred to, with whom she had been enjoying an evening stroll.

“Georgiana,” said her brother, starting up to meet her, and drawing her aside, “can you not prevail on your fair colonial guest to appear at the masquerade this evening? I am dying to see her, for the melody of her voice, just now wafted to my ears on the air, has reminded me of one who was dear to me, and is lost forever. I would fain hear its tones in conversation.”

“I have heretofore refrained from urging it on poor Grace to appear in the drawing-room,” replied the young lady; “she seemed so averse to the mention of such a thing. But I have do doubt that I could bring her yielding nature to comply, if I were to put the effort in the light of a favor toward me, whom she loves as a sister. It might do her good, too, poor thing, if she could only be induced to make the exertion. It shall be as you wish, dear brother; you may depend upon me.”

A few hours afterward more than ordinary excitement was passing in the mansion. A masquerade was given to the officers – and the scene was gay and picturesque. The main wing was lighted up, and gay with the festivities. The sounds of merriment and laughter were heard.

Grace Bartlett had at length yielded to the request of her hostess that she would be present, and had quietly submitted to be attired in a graceful robe of India Muslin, so transparent in its texture as to look like gauze. Her beautiful hair received a new grace from the single white camellia with its drooping bud, which gleamed like a star amid those golden tresses, so purely, so freshly beautiful, that it seemed a fit emblem of her it adorned.

Georgiana Lincoln appeared a fairy vision of beauty and brightness; the diamonds sparkling among her shining braids, and the graceful folds of her lace robe falling around her like drapery around a Grecian statue.

The masqueraders were intent on their amusement as the two females entered. Then, for a few moments, all merriment ceased, and murmurs of undisguised admiration went round. The Puritan was seated at once by her friend in a recess upon a couch raised a little above the floor, and immediately after Miss Lincoln proceeded to mix among the company. In a moment, a gentleman of elegant figure and handsome face pressed forward, and saluted her with marked empressement. “My dear Miss Lincoln, to-night carries me back to London refinement and fashion – dress – scenery – company – beauty – fascination. This evening will be impressed on our English hearts indelibly, to the utter forgetfulness of our rusticated state in these American forests.”

“Do be grateful, then,” the lady answered, “to me for giving you some taste of London and its fashion. Papa is much too solemn for any thing but those great, pompous dinners, which I detest.”

“But tell me,” rejoined her companion, “how did you induce that lovely flower” (and he turned his masked visage toward Grace Bartlett) “to shed its perfume on our scentless hearts?”

“By exhausting all that irresistible eloquence of which you speak so highly,” she replied; “for I recognize my complimentary acquaintance, Lieut. R – .”

“Indeed! Well, she is perfectly lovely, and with a touch of sadness so interesting,” said the gentleman. “I’ll exert myself to flirt with her.”

“I am not quite sure you will find that task so easy as you imagine,” was the laughing rejoinder.

“Very likely,” responded Lieut. R. “But in a good cause I am prepared to go great lengths, and as she is very pretty I’ll take my chance at any rate.”

At that moment, another individual approached, and after the ordinary civilities of the evening, said to her gently, “Miss Lincoln, will you not walk on the gallery by moonlight?”

The words, as they were pronounced in a somewhat tremulous tone, sounded musically in her ear, and taking the arm of the speaker she proceeded with him to the place alluded to.

For one or two turns they promenaded in silence. The gentleman seemed strangely agitated. He tried to say something indifferent, but it would not do, and he plunged at once into the subject near his heart.

“I thought,” he said, hurriedly and timidly, “that I could have waited calmly the answer which I requested in the early part of this evening; but I overrated my own powers of endurance, and I come now to hear my doom from your lips. Speak to me, Georgiana; I have dared to hope that the regard I feel for you is not wholly unreturned, and that you prefer me above some others around you. Is this so, dear girl, or must I teach my heart to forego all its hopes of happiness, all those blissful feelings of which, until I knew you, I was ignorant. Oh! do not condemn me to disappointment,” he exclaimed, passionately. “Give me at least hope. Georgiana, dearest Georgiana, am I too presumptuous?”

He spoke with strong emotion, and his was a voice, when in deep persuasion, difficult to resist: his arm was still encircling his companion, and she had not removed it, as she heard that the happiness or misery of a life depended on her decision.

“Speak, dearest, but one little word,” urged her lover, in a whispered voice of intense suspense.

Georgiana did not speak that word, little as it was, but she lifted up her truthful face, and fixed her clear, dark orbs for one brief moment fully upon his, and the next instant that lovely head was bent down, and the rich, mantling blushes hidden on his bosom.

“It is enough, my own one,” murmured the enraptured suitor, in all the ecstasy of that instant of first accepted love.

At length, remembering that they had deserted the drawing-room very unceremoniously, they returned to find the company in some surprise at their absence, but their excuses soon proved satisfactory, and they at once mingled separately amongst the various guests.

Shortly after, Charles Lincoln sauntered languidly into the apartment, closely masked. On first entering, he had for a moment fixed an almost startled gaze of admiration upon the Puritan. To a close observer, deep emotion would have been discernible beneath that mask. But a powerful will struggled against the display of it, as, half concealed behind a pillar, he retreated to look more intently, and without being observed. He wished to discover whether or no his sense of vision had deceived him. But no – it must be she whom he beheld – the same grace in the drooping form, but how fragile did it appear; how painfully changed in the character of its loveliness were the faultless features of that face – when the hair, combed carelessly back from her brow, displayed their delicate outlines. Her countenance spoke with truth of the ravages sorrow had occasioned.

Lincoln gazed until he had convinced himself, rushed forward and reached the astonished girl: then tearing off his mask, he exclaimed, “Grace! dearest Grace, you live yet, and I find you in my father’s halls!”

The astonished and bewildered girl gave one cry, and fell fainting at his feet.

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CHAPTER XI

Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.
The web is wove. The work is done.

    Gray.
It was on a lovely summer’s evening, rather more than ten years after the events last recorded, that two persons were sitting in the spacious drawing-room of a noble mansion in Canada, opening on a park. They had, it appeared by the lady’s attire, been walking, but as their conversation deepened in interest, the repose of home had again been unconsciously sought. She had thrown aside her bonnet, and as she sat, her face upturned to her male companion, her features disclosed a loveliness that would have irresistibly attracted attention. The repose of her features was so soft and gentle that the eye would have fallen there with the same delight, and turned away with the same regret which it experiences in regard to other things which are found to harmonize with its vision. In her the period of girlhood had merged into the epoch of woman’s maturity, when, nearer her prime than her bloom, she unites all the truth and freshness of early youth with those calm and more finished graces which come not to pass away, but to deepen and endure.

But one glance at the sweet Madonna countenance, the unequaled expression of the placid features, the golden hair, shaded now to something of a chestnut, will suffice for her recognition by all those whose interest in Grace Bartlett has sketched her image in their minds.

To the Grace Bartlett of our opening chapter, she bore indeed only the outward resemblance that the opening flower does to the early bud. But even as the full blown rose reveals the luscious scent and glowing beauty which the blossom contained, so did her character, as it now shone forth beneath the bright and dazzling sun of affluence, confirm and strengthen the promise of its dawn.

The gay, playful child of our first chapter, the timid, shrinking Puritan girl of our after history, was now the modestly dignified, though still retiring, wife of the Governor General of Canada. The pure and holy sentiments of religion which had formerly been spoken timidly, as hardly daring to find expression lest the high-born should mock or pity, were now avowed calmly, unostentatiously as they had been acted upon in the deep trials of her girlhood.

Her love for her husband was intense and absorbing, but it came not between herself and heaven. The fruits of her holy life were gentleness and self-denial, meekness and charity – plainly showing at whose feet she laid the offering of her heart.

In the polished circle in which she now moved, she had preserved within her that pure light which, when the sun is growing dim and waxing faint, alone can guide through the dark valley of the shadow of death. The heart of that lovely flower of a Puritan village – a heart that had throbbed and quivered at the faintest touch of kindness, and which a silken thread could lead in all other matters, had stood firm where her religion was concerned, and this very firmness had won her husband to her faith.

The importance which Frank Winthrop had acquired as the son of Gen. Lincoln, added to his personal merit – under the name of his adopted father, which he always retained, ignorant of his real origin, had attracted the attention of the government. He was soon employed in various situations of responsibility and importance. By the same progression in fortune which first elevated him, another and a later change had brought him in Canada to the rank of Governor General.

The conversation between the two had been continued for some time, when the voice of a young child was heard on the stair-case.