"'He laughs and he rides away.'
"'He laughs and he rides away.'
Nay, Mary do not look offended. He did not intend anythingveryinsulting I dare say. Go dear, and rest yourself after this long walk Louis has dragged you, and which has made you look so pale."
And thus dismissed, Mary went to her room, but not to take up her usual window-seat. There would be no interest in looking across the park that night. No—nor for a great many nights to come.
Most of that next month passed without much outward change or excitement. Mrs. de Burgh declared that the extreme dulness made Mary look quite listless and ill.
On the first of September, however, there was a shooting party, and a few other gaieties in the neighbourhood, the country houses beginning again to fill.
Mary during this interval of time had received one piece of information, which rejoiced her greatly, if it did not succeed in making her so completely happy as she fancied it would have done a month or two before.
Her brother Arthur wrote word, that he should be in England towards the end of the autumn. He gave no very flourishing account of their property and affairs. He spoke of the necessity for his entering into some profession, and of his wish of following up the study of the law. But all was written in as cheerful a strain as if his communication had been of a contrary nature.
Who but the young can thus look cheerfully into the face of the grim monster poverty, and say "be welcome," feeling now that talents which had otherwise been weighed down beneath the deadening power of affluence, may now be given eagle wings wherewith to mount above to honour and renown? For as the German author writes:
"Riches often weigh more heavily on talents than poverty; but," he beautifully continues, "Just Providence preserve the old man from want, for hoary years have already bent him low, and he can no longer stand upright with the youth, and bear the heavy burden on his head. The old man needs rest on the earth, ever while he is upon it, for he can use only the present, and a little bit of the future, and the past does not reflect for him as in a glass the blooming present."
It was not till the middle of September that Eugene Trevor returned. Mary saw him first again at an archeryfêtegiven in the grounds of Morland, the scene of their former meeting and acquaintance.
But that it would prove a day coloured by the same bright remembrances, appeared at first unlikely.
For some time, Mary feared that the expectations of his being present at all were doomed to disappointment, for he did not make his appearance till very late; and Mary walked about with her cousin Louis (who on this occasion proved a betterchaperonthan on the former), trying to look more cheerful than she really felt.
An hour before dinner, he was discerned among the gay throng, but as Mr. de Burgh did not direct his course that way, he remained—as Mary was too easily inclined to imagine, coldly aloof—either she thought offended, or discouraged by the recollection of the coldness of manner she had shown towards him on his parting visit, or—(why should she imagine it otherwise?) the new pursuits and scenes of interests in which he had been engaged, had effaced all traces of any slight impression she might have made upon his mind or feelings.
No greeting passed between them until, on their way to thedéjeûner, Eugene passed her with another lady on his arm, and the one they then exchanged was necessarily slight and hurried, signifying nothing.
His companion was young and beautiful, and Mary, with pardonable curiosity, inquired who she was of the gentleman who escorted her.
She was told it was the young Lady Darlington, lately married, and we will not say that the substance of this communication was not a relief to Mary. They sat at the same side of the table, not very far divided, and Mary's companion must have found her rather an absent neighbour, she so often discovered her attention directed to what was being said by Eugene Trevor, though there was nothing very particular to interest an indifferent listener in his conversation with the young Countess.
Indeed, even to Mary it might have seemed most satisfactorily uninteresting, neither did it appear incapable of speedy exhaustion, for before the close of the repast, the Countess had turned her attention to her other neighbour, a young captain of the Guards, who seemed to have a greater flow of small talk at his disposal, whilst Eugene was joining in general conversation with others of the company, or leaning forward ever and anon, as if carelessly to review the guests beyond.
At length, Mary heard some remarks made upon some figs of peculiar growth, which had appeared upon the table. A few minutes after, a servant, to whom Trevor had been whispering some directions, brought the dish containing them round to a lady, a seat or two below, and said, distinctly enough for Mary to hear:
"Mr. Trevor sends these, Miss, with his compliments, and hopes you will take one, as they come from Montrevor."
The lady, not a very attractive person, acceded to the request, most graciously bending forward to smile and bow her acknowledgment of the flattering attention bestowed upon her.
But Eugene Trevor, who had also bent forward, seemed anything but gratified. On the contrary, he looked back in an irritated way at the servant, as if dissatisfied with the manner in which he had performed his behest; and in a few seconds more he had risen, and was standing himself behind Mary's chair.
"That fool of a man," he said, in a suppressed tone, "evidently would not know a rose from a peony. I told him to take those figs to the young lady with the blue forget-me-nots in her white bonnet, and he took them to your neighbour with the unconscionably large china-asters. You must oblige me by taking one. They come out of my father's hot-house. I had them picked on purpose to send to Silverton, as I remembered hearing you say they were your favourite fruit; but Lady Dorington happened to call, and carried them off for this affair of to-day."
Mary turned her head, and lifted up her face towards the speaker. A look met hers from the dark eyes of Eugene Trevor—a look surely possessed of deeper meaning—which must have been intended to plead a greater boon than her acceptance of the fruit of his father's garden. And though the next moment he was gone, and she left with a beating heart to taste the luscious offering—nay, though he was scarcely many minutes by her side again that afternoon—for dancing quickly succeeded the repast, and Trevor did not dance, while Mary's hand was in great request—yet a feeling of such perfect happiness had suddenly taken possession of her soul, that she was fully contented to feel that, as he stood apart amongst those not joining in the dance, Trevor's eye was constantly following her every movement with earnest, never-diverted attention.
How strange the secret power which sometimes attracts one towards the other, two beings of natures the most opposite!
Perhaps if two individuals had been chosen from amongst that large assembly, by those who knew them best—who on the score of incompatibility were least calculated to blend harmoniously together—it would have been that pure-hearted, single-minded, high-souled girl, whose ideal standard of the good and beautiful was of so refined and elevated a nature, a standard hitherto kept intact by the peculiar circumstances of her youthful existence—from whose very outward aspect seemed to breathe the undisturbed harmony of her lovely character;—she and that man, of a corrupted and corrupting world, upon whose brow was set the mark of many a contracting aim, many a darkening thought, a debasing pursuit, upon whose soul lay perhaps as dark a stain of actual crime as any in that company;—yet it seemed that this mysterious unaccountable power, did from the very first draw their hearts with sympathetic unison one towards another.
Well it showed at least that Trevor's soul was not as yet "all evil," that it could still bow before an image of purity and goodness, such as was enshrined in Mary's breast, andshe—
"Why did she love him?—Curious fool be still—Is human love the growth of human will?"
"Why did she love him?—Curious fool be still—Is human love the growth of human will?"
Absorbed in her happy dreams, Mary drove home that evening with her cousins, too happy, even, to be much disturbed by that generally most fruitful source of disturbance, the bitter words passing between her companions.
They seemed now to have been provoked by some imprudence of Mrs. de Burgh's during that day; her husband's animadversions thereupon exciting the lady's scornful resentment; but its exact nature, Mary had too little observed Mrs. de Burgh during the day, to be able fully to understand.
Mrs. de Burgh, on her part, had been too much occupied with her own pleasure and interests to attend much to Mary and her concerns; but she told her, as they parted for the night, that she expected Eugene the next day to dinner.
Mary also had received information to the same effect, communicated in her ear, as she was being handed to the carriage.
Expectation on this point was, however, doomed to disappointment; the next evening, about the time that Eugene Trevor generally arrived, when he was to dine and sleep at the house, a horseman was seen approaching across the park, which proved to be a servant from Montrevor, mounted on his master's beautiful chesnut. He was the bearer of a note to Mrs. de Burgh.
Eugene Trevor wrote word that in returning home the preceding night, with a friend, he had received a kick from his companion's horse, and was now a prisoner to his bed. It was to him a most provoking accident, on many accounts, but he supposed he must submit to at least a week's confinement, as the medical man considered it his only chance of a speedy recovery. Mary looked a little pale at dinner after this intelligence, but was otherwise as cheerful, as calmly happy, as she had been since thefête.
Mrs. de Burgh afterwards sent over to inquire after her cousin, and once Mr. de Burgh, having occasion to ride into the neighbourhood, called to see Trevor, and brought back word of his progress towards recovery.
The injury proved, however more tedious than it had at first been anticipated. October had set in before he was allowed to walk; but still Mary's spirits did not fail her.
If "love could live upon one smile for years," much more throughout a few weeks of such unavoidable and accidental contingency.
I thank thee for that downcast look, and for that blushing cheek,I would not have thee raise those eyes, I would not have thee speak.Tho' mute, I deem thee eloquent, I ask no other sign,While thus thy little hand remains confidingly in mine.HAYNES BAYLEY.
I thank thee for that downcast look, and for that blushing cheek,I would not have thee raise those eyes, I would not have thee speak.Tho' mute, I deem thee eloquent, I ask no other sign,While thus thy little hand remains confidingly in mine.
HAYNES BAYLEY.
A friend of Mrs. de Burgh's came to stay at Silverton about this time, a lady of a certain age.
She had lately lost her husband.
Though malicious report spoke her to have loved him little during life, she now mourned with considerable effect at his decease; and though there was but the family party—for which circumstance she had been prepared—staying in the house—this being the first visit she had paid since her bereavement, she had not yet—though several days had elapsed since her arrival—been able to muster sufficient nerve to issue from the luxurious apartments assigned to her.
Mr. de Burgh maliciously expressed himself fearful that the cap was not becoming, hearing that the dainty, but not unsubstantial meals so plentifully partaken of by the fair widow in her retreat, did not well agree with any very wearing sentiment of grief.
But Mrs. de Burgh said it was just like his ill-nature on every subject connected withherfriends—andfaute de mieux, rather enjoyed the lounge of Mrs. Trevyllian's room, where she spent a great part of her time.
One evening, about the end of three weeks after Eugene Trevor's accident, having remained talking to Mary some time after they had left the dining-room, Mrs. de Burgh announced herself obliged to go up stairs to Mrs. Trevyllian, for the rest of the evening, that lady having made her promise so to do, she being in more than usually bad spirits that day.
"I know you do not mind a quiet evening for once," she added, "and I have already seen you cast many a wistful glance at those books on the table, whilst I have been talking nonsense; so make yourself comfortable and if you find it dull come up to us. Mrs. Trevyllian will not mind you. You will not have Louis' company to-night, for he has ordered candles in the library, and means to adjourn there with his landscape gardener when he leaves the dining room."
Mary was accordingly left in solitary possession of the fair saloon, through which the soft clear lamps and ruddy fire cast so cheerful a radiance, feeling quite capable of appreciating the enjoyment, nay luxury, of occasional solitude of the kind under similar auspices.
She felt quite sure as she glanced around, when Mrs. de Burgh closed the door behind her, that thetête-à-têteof Olivia and her friend would not be intruded upon by her to-night, that for the hour or two before bed-time she should be well able to wile away her moments more agreeably; and when in accordance with Mrs. de Burgh's anticipations, she listened to the retreating voices of Louis and his companion, as issuing from the dining-room they proceeded to the library, and shut the door upon them to pore, for the remainder of the evening, over books and plans—for Mr. L—— had to leave early on the following morning—Mary obediently followed Mrs. de Burgh's injunction, "to make herself comfortable," by sinking back on a luxuriousbergèreon one side of the fire place, and returning to the perusal of a work she had commenced that day—whether for the name's-sake we cannot tell—but when my readers learn its title, they will scarcely wonder if she now proceeded with almost as much absorbing and abstract interest as if in Madeline's own words there had been "no more Eugene's in the world than one"—the strange and mysterious hero of her romantic studies. The book she read was Eugene Aram.
Thus engaged, Mary's attention wholly rivetted by the stirring interest of the story, her taste enchanted by the glowing descriptions; and more than all, her feelings and sympathies affected by the striking sentiments of force and pathos with which its pages abound. She must have become insensible to the existence of common worldly sounds, for that of the door bell at this unusual hour, made no more impression on her senses than any other might have done.
Reclining back in indolent repose, one hand supporting the book, whilst her other fair girlish arm lay in listless abandonment across the arm of the chair, she just heard the door of the apartment open, but never troubled herself to turn her head to look upon the intruder, concluding that it could be only the servant come to attend to the fire, and not till he had crossed the room and stood close before her, did she raise her eyes to behold Eugene Trevor.
Yes, there he was, standing looking down upon her with a smile on his lips, provoked, first by the extreme absorption in which he had surprised her, and then by the gaze of startled wonder, her upraised countenance expressed. But astonishment soon gave way to other appearances. If Eugene Trevor had ever reason to doubt the true impression made by him on Mary Seaham's heart—by this sudden and unexpected arrival after an interval of absence such as had occurred, and from causes such as had existed—he had now taken good means to ascertain its real nature and extent.
Nothing speaks so truly as to the character and durability of the feelings we have awakened, than the effect produced by meetings of this sort.
"Le plus aimé n'est pas toujours le meilleur reçu,"
"Le plus aimé n'est pas toujours le meilleur reçu,"
some French poet writes, butrencontresof this description admit of no such refined and delicate subterfuges. The truth must out in glance, or tone, or countenance,
"And then if silence does not speak,Or faltering tongue, or changing cheek—There's nothing told."
"And then if silence does not speak,Or faltering tongue, or changing cheek—There's nothing told."
And these tell-tale signs were unmistakeably revealed in this unprepared moment upon poor Mary's countenance, when her lover, for so she had lately dared to deem him, so unexpectedly appeared before her sight after three weeks separation.
She knew him during that time to have been ill, and suffering from a dangerous and painful accident. She saw him paler, thinner, than she had ever yet beheld him. They were alone together at this uncommon time and under these unexpected circumstances, and her heart beat fast with feelings she had never before experienced.
And there she sat; the colour fast mounting over cheek and brow, then leaving them very pale. Her eyes half filled with tears, her half parted lips unable to falter forth, but incoherently, the words of welcome, of congratulation, of pleasure at his recovery; which to any other individual under the same circumstances, nay to himself, but a few weeks ago, would have flowed so calmly and naturally from her kind warm heart.
"Eugene Aram" fell unheeded from her hands. To Mary, indeed, at that moment, "there was but one Eugene in the world."
Fortunately for her, he in whose presence she now found herself, however culpable he might be in other points of conduct and of character, was not one, in this instance, to take a vain and heartless pleasure in the discovery he thus made.
"To trifle in cold vanity with allThe warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it isA triumph that a fond devoted heartIs breaking for them—who can bear to callYoung flowers into beauty—and then to crush them."
"To trifle in cold vanity with allThe warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it isA triumph that a fond devoted heartIs breaking for them—who can bear to callYoung flowers into beauty—and then to crush them."
Nay, still more fortunately for Mary, he was as much in love himself at this time—perhaps, even still more so—different, totally, in kind, as that love might be; and that he was loved, unsuspectingly, undeservedly loved, by one, in his idea, as far above himself in purity and goodness, as an angel is above a being of this fallen earth—loved even with that excellence with which "angels love good men," filled his soul, at that moment, with emotions of a softer, holier nature, than any which, perhaps, for a long time, it had been his happiness to experience; and a grateful, almost humbled, exultation, if any such feeling was excited by the conviction, lit up with a sudden flash of animation, his keen dark eve. He did not wait for Mary to finish what she had attempted to express on his account. A moment's earnest abstracted pause ensued, then moving quickly from his position on the hearth-rug, as if impelled by a sudden irresistible impulse, he drew a chair close to her's, and sitting down by her side, at once began.
Her face was half averted, but he bent down his that she might catch the low, soft, earnest accents, in which he breathed forth expressions of his joy at beholding her again—how that she alone had filled his thoughts during the period of his confinement—how impatiently he had awaited the moment of liberation—and how, though unavoidably prevented from leaving home as he had intended, in time for dinner, he could not bear to delay one night longer after receiving his release, and had therefore set out even at this eleventh hour—finally, he alluded to the unexpected delight of finding her thus alone, the circumstance affording him, as it did, the joyful opportunity of at once expressing in words, what she must long ere this have inwardly discerned, the admiration, the respect, the far deeper, tenderer feelings, with which she, almost from the first moment he beheld her, had inspired him. He knew he was unworthy to possess so inestimable a treasure, but if any strength or measure of affection could atone for other imperfections, his surely might be sufficient to plead in his behalf, did she not disdain the compensation.
Poor Mary! Her head sank lower, lower, on her heaving bosom, as one by one these thrilling words—these fond assurances—came falling on her ear, or rather sinking into her heart,
"Like the sweet SouthThat breathes upon a bank of violetsStealing and giving odour,"
"Like the sweet SouthThat breathes upon a bank of violetsStealing and giving odour,"
overpowering it with emotions of only too exquisite a nature.
Was not her's a happiness rare and almost unexampled, to find the hero of her maiden meditations thus prove in truth the master and magician of her fate?
Yet even in that moment of joyful agitation, was there no swift under current of thought, and recollection mingling strangely with her immediate sensations; bringing with it, a certain confusion of feeling and idea, similar to the one which had broken her slumbers the first night of her arrival at Silverton?
Alas! if it was the remembrance of the Welsh hill-side which again suggested itself, if the image of her rejected lover standing by her with that suppressed, yet deep and manly grief and disappointment, expressed upon his noble countenance—might there not have been too a voice to whisper in her ear, "And what then is there in this man by your side, that he has thus found favour in your eyes; what superiority and excellence have you fancied in him, that he is thus chosen when the other was rejected?"
But no such voice it seems did speak, or if so, it made itself not heard.
The charmed ear is deaf to whom it whispers—the fascinated eye is blind to whom it would suggest such comparison.
Yes, blind! Blind as the aged patriarch of old. Jacob is blessed: the blessing and the birthright is taken from the rightful claimant. "I have blessed him, yea, and he shall be blessed."
Mary has not yet spoken, but there is a silence more expressive than words—and expressive, as that which had followed Mr. Temple's declaration and so coldly fallen upon his trembling hopes, was, to Eugene Trevor, the silence which now hung upon her tongue. That blushing face, those tearful eyes, those smiling lips, spoke all that he desired to hear. They emboldened him so far as the pressing one of the soft hands, which now nervously grasped the chair beside him, and though it trembled, it was not withdrawn; and then the first overpowering flood of agitation subdued—Mary, her emotion soothed and composed, had told her love with "virgin pride—" and now sat calmly happy by her lover's side, listening to his earnest conversation on many points connected with that future now before them; yes whatever might have been the nature of his feelings on the occasion, how intense and delicious werehersensations of happiness; for as it is expressed in the pages of the book to which we have, in the last chapter, had occasion to allude:
"In the pure heart of a young girl loving for the first time, love is far more ecstatic than in man's more fevered nature. Love then and there, makes the only state of human existence which is at once capable of calmness and transport."
She hath flungHer all upon the venture of her vow,And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower,By the still river tempted from its stemAnd on its bosom floating.WILLIS.
She hath flungHer all upon the venture of her vow,And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower,By the still river tempted from its stemAnd on its bosom floating.
WILLIS.
Mary did not feel quite equal to face her cousin and his friend in her present state of mind; therefore, on the first movement making itself heard in the direction of the library, she took alarm and escaped up stairs, leaving Trevor, who did not suffer the same shamefaceness, to undergo the encounter alone. Mary first went to her own room, then shortly after, trying to look as if nothing had happened, proceeded to Mrs. Trevyllian's apartment, to wish her cousin good night. She found the ladies both reclining on their respective sofas, and was cordially welcomed by each, as if by this time they had began to have had enough of each other's uninterrupted society.
"Do you know that Mr. Trevor is here?" Mary murmured to her cousin, with averted countenance.
"Why, I fancied you had a visitor of some sort," Mrs. de Burgh replied with a smile of arch significance. "Was I not good to leave you undisturbed?" she added at the same time in a whisper, trying to catch a glimpse of Mary's face, whilst Mrs. Trevyllian turned upon it a glance of such scrutinizing curiosity, that Mary finding this an ordeal, unendurable for the present, bade them "good night," and made her escape back to the sheltered sanctity of her solitary chamber, where no intruding gaze could pierce, to meddle with the shrinking, modest joy, which overflowed her heart.
But it seems that Mrs. de Burgh, with all pardonable curiosity, considering she was not quite unprepared for what Eugene Trevor's visit would bring forth, had gone down-stairs after Mary left her, and had a long private conversation with her cousin; for though she did not disturb her again that night, it being very late before the interview came to an end; yet the next morning, just as Mary was endeavouring to clear her senses, and remember whether what had occurred the night before had been a dream or a reality, Olivia made her appearance to embrace and congratulate her on the happy intelligence she had received.
"You cannot imagine, dear Mary," she said, "how pleased I was when Eugene told me. It is just what I have wished all along. I have always been very fond of Eugene; all that he required was a good wife, such as he will find in you; and I feel convinced that he will make you very happy."
Mary smiled, as if she too felt perfectly satisfied on this point.
"Louis," Mrs. de Burgh continued, "will most likely say that he is not half good enough for you, but I suppose you will not feel much inclined to agree with him there. As far as that goes, I assure you Eugene thinks the same, but that is only as it should be, the more humble men's ideas of themselves, and the more exalted their views of us, the better; they are not often disposed to hold such doctrine. Of course you cannot expect that even Eugene, has been, or ever will be, a piece of perfection in character or conduct; but ah, I see by your face that you think him so now, at any rate, so what signifies thehas been, or themay be? Well, you are quite right. 'Sufficient for the day' is my motto, and, as I said before, I am convinced Eugene will love you as much as ever wife was loved."
Mary's beaming eyes spoke indeed her perfect satisfaction, at this summing up of Mrs. de Burgh's discourse. The rest she heeded not; it agreed so little with the spirit of her pure and perfect love, and she then inquired whether "Eugene," (with a blushing smile, as for the first time she called him by that name,) had made Louis acquainted with the fact of their engagement. She should be very glad if this were the case, as she could not keep it a secret for a moment longer from her kind cousin than was necessary; but Eugene seemed the evening before, rather to wish that she should delay the communication for a day or two.
"Yes," replied Mrs. de Burgh, "he told me so last night, and still would prefer our being silent on the subject just at present. The fact is, he anticipates some little difficulty in reconciling his father to the idea of his marriage. Uncle Trevor is rather a strange old man. Besides being very fond of his son, he may imagine such an event likely to interfere with the comfort he has in his society at Montrevor, not, of course, that Eugene would allow that to be any obstacle; but only he thinks, I dare say, that it is as well to keep the matter as snug as possible, till he has prepared the old man's mind a little for the change."
"Oh, of course," Mary said. "It is much better that it should be so. It is only Louis, who I should not like to keep in the dark longer than was really necessary, staying as I am in his house, and he being so near and responsible a relation. Besides, it will be so difficult when Eugene is here, to prevent letting it appear that something peculiar has happened."
Mrs. de Burgh laughed.
"Well! Eugene seemed to think that he would find it rather difficult too, and for that reason imagined it better to go away this morning before breakfast. He gave out last night, what is partly true, that he only came hereen routeto M——, where he has business to transact; he will return home to-night, and begin operations on the old gentleman. In the meantime, as the most likely means to expedite and facilitate matters, Eugene has set his heart upon a little plan which he commissioned me to lay before you, and also to beseech you, with his most tender love, not to disappoint his wishes on the subject."
Mary's countenance seemed to say that already his request was granted, but she paused for further information.
"He proposes," continued Mrs. de Burgh, "that, perhaps not the next day, but the one following, you and I should drive over to Montrevor to luncheon, and that in this way his father, before he knows of anything being in the wind, should see and know you—and he thinks—as a matter of course, be charmed and delighted, and so half the battle gained at once."
Mary smiled.
"But what will Louis say to this?" she inquired, "he will object now, I suppose, as much as formerly, to our driving to Montrevor."
"Louis!how very good you are Mary, why you are not half in love if you would allow ought that Louis could say or think, to interfere with anything in which Eugene is concerned now. But to set your mind at ease on this point, Louis happens to leave home this morning and does not return till the next day, so you need not have to tell any stories on the subject, and perhaps, when you see him again, you may be able to divulge all, and he have no more business to quarrel with your drives to Montrevor."
Mary gave a yielding smile, and we are afraid that even if she had entertained any conscientious scruples after the above discourse, they would have melted quite away after the first love-letter she received, under cover to one addressed to Mrs. de Burgh, from Eugene Trevor on the following morning. A little note which she wrote in reply, necessarily settled the point.
Mr. de Burgh took his departure early the next morning, and his fair lady ordered the pony carriage to come round at noon the same day, for their drive to Montrevor, which was more than twelve miles distant.
"Adieu, happy people, you will have a delightful drive!" sighed Mrs. Trevyllian, who had actually been emboldened by the absence of gentlemen to face the sunshine beneath the cover of her crape veil, and to go out for a stroll upon the lawn.
And a delightful drive it was, at least to Mary. It would have been so, even under less favourable auspices, with the same happy prospects at the end. A visit to her intended, under his father's roof! But even nature seemed to smile upon her hopes. It was a perfect specimen of an October day, with the balmy and refreshing warmth, sometimes characterizing this period of the year; the sky serene and clear, above their heads, whilst the woods and trees which skirted the roads, along which they so swiftly sped, were still in one rich golden glow.
And it was not for Mary, on this happy day, to think, how there wanted but one chill and wintry blast to lay these thousand glories low.
She naturally felt a little nervous when she was informed they were approaching their destination. The trembling happiness of meeting Eugene for the first time since their last eventful interview, made her heart beat fast—and then there was her introduction to his father, the "strange old man," on whom the impression she should make was to her, for Eugene's sake, of such great importance.
Mrs. de Burgh, in her conversation, during the drive, touched in great measure on the subject of this relative.
She described him as having for years lived a very reclusive life at Montrevor; and thus to have acquired peculiarities and eccentricities, even beyond those which in a degree were natural to his habits and disposition—one of which, by her account, seemed to be an inclination to the most rigid parsimony, and she prepared Mary to see some signs of this in the character of their entertainment upon the present occasion.
"Of course," Mrs. de Burgh added, "Eugene does not much interest himself in amending such matters at present, and indeed during his father's life-time—or perhaps till he married—it was of little consequence to him, and to say the truth, any interference on his part would not have been of much avail, for an old favourite servant has hitherto held sovereign sway over the house. However, it will be all very different some of these days," she added with a smile, "when a Mrs. Eugene Trevor comes into power."
I knowShe prizes not such trifles as these are:The gifts she looks from me, are pack'd and lock'dUp in my heart.WINTER'S TALE.
I knowShe prizes not such trifles as these are:The gifts she looks from me, are pack'd and lock'dUp in my heart.
WINTER'S TALE.
They entered at last upon the domain of Montrevor, a very fine estate, on much the same scale, and not very different in style, to the mansion of Silverton; a not uncommon similarity which might seem, generally speaking, to run through the estates and great houses of our several English counties, almost as much as their distinctive characteristics are shown forth in the dialect of the common people, and even—as we fancy—in the style and manners of the superior class of inhabitants.
But there was one important point which imparted a very opposite aspect to the two places, and must have at once struck the beholder; whereas the grounds of Silverton, under the influence of Mr. de Burgh's zealous exertions, were undergoing the process of improvement—or at least alteration to a great extent—those of Montrevor, if not quite allowed to run wild, from neglect, showed at least no signs of anything like expensive outlay being wasted on their culture, or arrangement; whilst on the other hand, the frequent sight of naked stumps, interspersed within the still richly wooded domain, gave rise to the suspicion that the woodman's axe found no inconsiderable measure of employment there.
"Yes!" Mrs. de Burgh observed, in allusion to these appearances; "Eugene does all in his power to prevent too great a dilapidation of this kind; so the greatest delight the old gentleman can have is a regular destructive storm, after which he walks about—like a certain duke, whose propensities where restrained by an entail—chuckling over the devastations it may have occasioned, and yet I believe he is richer by far than Louis. I only wish," she added, giving a smart lash to the ponies, as they started aside from some fallen timber which lay near the road, "that he would spare his money a little in the same way; or at any rate, keep it to spend in a more satisfactory manner."
"Is Eugene the eldest son?" Mary quietly enquired, not the least afraid, in her unconscious simplicity of heart, lest the demand might have awakened suspicions that the sight of these fine family possessions had for the first time suggested the important question.
"The eldest son. Oh! I will tell you all about that presently. See, here is the house, and there is Eugene on the anxious look-out."
And what further thought had Mary as to her lover's primogeniture?
With glad alacrity, he hastened to meet them when the carriage stopped before the door, and warm and fervent was the meeting and the welcome he gave to his gentle, happy betrothed.
On Mary's part all nervous discomfort seemed to vanish, as handing her from the carriage he drew her trembling arm within his own, and led her up the steps into his father's halls, thanking her all the time, with the most earnest tenderness for having thus acceded to his request.
"My father," he said, turning to Mrs. de Burgh, as before proceeding they paused for a few moments together to converse, "is quite prepared to see you; and a very charming young lady—" looking with an expressive smile at Mary—"who, I told him, would accompany you; and I suppose luncheon must be nearly ready, that is to say, if there is anything prepared deserving of that name, and really I have been so busy this morning, and am so unaccustomed to eat in this house, that I never thought of making particular inquiries on the subject. But I suppose Marryott will give us something."
"Oh, yes, I dare say!" Mrs. de Burgh rejoined laughing; "and I am so hungry that I shall not much care what it is, so, that there only is 'something.' I have prepared, Mary, for finding that there will be some few points of reformation required in the domestic arrangements of Montrevor; but neither ofyou, of course, can do anything so unromantic as to eat just at present. Come along! where is my uncle—in his library?" and she proceeded to lead the way to that apartment.
In the long, low, and rather gloomy-looking library, on a faded crimson leather chair before a bureau, or old-fashioned writing-table, with drawers innumerable, was seated Mr. Trevor, the unconscious father-in-law elect of Mary Seaham. At the opening of the door, which instantaneously followed Mrs. de Burgh's knock, he hastily closed one of the receptacles over which he had seemed to be bending assiduously, and turning round his head and beholding his visitors, rose to receive them—giving his wasted hand to his niece, and saying in a weak and tremulous voice:
"My dear Olivia, I am very glad to see you."
"AndIoverjoyed to behold you again, uncle. It is really an age since I have had that pleasure; but how excessively well you are looking!" Then turning towards Mary, she added: "Allow me to introduce Miss Seaham—Louis' cousin, you know. I think you must remember her mother."
The old man looked at Mary and bowed with the utmost old-fashioned courtesy, then begged both ladies to be seated.
"I really have been intending to drive over to see you, dear uncle, ever since your illness in the summer," continued Mrs. de Burgh, "but one thing or the other has prevented me. Besides Louis always persisted that you would only think me a nuisance, and Eugene," she added, looking at her cousin, who laughed at the accusation, "really did not much encourage the contrary idea."
"Eh, Eugene, is that the case?" responded the old gentleman, with an attempt at a jocular smile, which sat ill on his naturally careworn, anxious countenance. "A nice character they seem to give me, and that young lady," glancing towards Mary, "must look upon me of course as a sad old churl."
Mary with a sweet and earnest smile, denied the truth of any such assumption, and Mr. Trevor looked at her again more attentively, as almost every one who did look upon her countenance with any degree of observation, seldom failed to do a second time; not so much for its beauty as for that "something excellent which wants a name," attracting still more irresistibly. Mr. Trevor might have been also not a little struck by the expression of earnest, almost affectionate interest emanating from the gaze, with which he caught the soft grey eyes of this young stranger fixed upon his face; "and why does she look at me in that manner, does the girl want to borrow money?" were exactly the words which might have seemed to suit the first sharp suspicious glance with which he marked the circumstance, though diverted irresistibly and almost instantaneously by the silent magic of her ingenuous countenance.
Mary could not help regarding Eugene's father with a considerable degree of interest and attention, but even under indifferent circumstances, she would not have been quite unimpressed. His long silvery hair falling nearly to his shoulders—the sort of loose vest he wore, and little velvet cap covering the baldness of the crown of his head, gave him on the firstcoup d'œila very venerable and picturesque appearance. But what on survey most attracted Mary's observation was the likeness, her loving quick-eyed perception perceived, or fancied she perceived between the father and son, allowing of course for the changing effects of age and infirmities, the latter perhaps in as great, if not in a greater degree in this case, than the former, for Mr. Trevor at this time was only seventy.
To the now bent and shrunken form, it was easy to imagine there had once belonged the manly build and middle height of Eugene. In his voice too, there was as much similarity of tone, as could have been preserved between such an unfeebled, time warped instrument, and the full toned organ of the other. Then there were the same dark, deep-set eyes, though dimmed and sunken; the same cast of features, though compressed, sharpened, and marked with signs and characters which she could not forbear to hope even age and infirmity might never mature on those of Eugene; for the impression they imparted was on a closer observation, of a far from agreeable nature.
"Well, Eugene, are we not to have some luncheon? these ladies must be hungry after their long drive," the old gentleman said after he had made civil enquiries as to the length of time Mary had been in the country, remarked on the weather &c.
"Yes indeed, Sir, Olivia professes herself very hungry indeed," Eugene replied, "I will ring the bell and ask if there is anything to be had."
"Yes, do so pray. Anything to be had," he repeated with a semblance of anxious hospitality, "of course there is something, Olivia is not to be starved (with an uneasy smile), eh, Olivia? But do not expect such feasting as you have at Silverton; we are plain housekeepers here at present, Eugene and I. My appetite is gone—irretrievably gone—can scarcely swallow a morsel, and Eugene is not particular. Bachelor fare suits him—Eh, Eugene?" he added with a facetious chuckle, "is not this the case?"
"Certainly, Sir,at present" his son replied with a significant laugh, in which Mrs. de Burgh joined, whilst both stole a glance at Mary, who cast down her eyes and blushed, though a smile at the same time played upon her lips.
A servant then entered, and in answer to the bell, announced that luncheon was on the table. Mr. Trevor by the manœuvre of Mrs. de Burgh, was made to offer his arm to Mary, whilst Eugene having smiled expressively upon her as she passed, followed with his cousin.
"What in the world induced you to put us in this dungeon of a room?" he enquired, turning to the butler, who with one other servant composed their attendance, as they entered the vast dining room, the door being thrown open for their reception.
"Yes, the small room would have done perfectly," said his father, glancing somewhat uneasily at the moderate fire burning not very effectually in the cold, bright, spacious grate, "but you and I can dine here Eugene, to-night—and the other fire," looking at the servant as he seated himself at the table, "may be let out."
"Very well, Sir," said the man, as he lifted up the cover of the dish placed before his master at the top of the long table, which might well have accommodated fourteen, a space being thereby occasioned between himself and Mary, and the couple at the bottom, of very formidable extent; and which seemed irresistably to excite Mrs. de Burgh's mirth, while Eugene was half angry, half amused at the stupidity and ridiculous nature of the arrangement.
"What have you there, Eugene?" Mr. Trevor then demanded, as the bottom cover was, at the same moment, removed.
"Potatoes, Sir, hot potatoes, I am glad to say, for we require heat, here, of some kind, excessively. I shall be glad to yield you and Miss Seaham, the benefit of their vicinity, and save you the trouble of that joint. Roland, bring that mutton here," and the small loin being placed before Eugene, he proceeded to help the ladies, (Eugene was always a silent observer of these little points,) according to his, now not inexperienced, estimate of their several tastes and appetites.
"None for me, Eugene, none for me," Mr. Trevor said, surveying Mary's small supply, not uncomplacently, and helping himself to a potatoe. "Never eat meat at this time, you know, and at any time but with a poor relish. Youth, and health, and spirits, make the best sauces. Eh, Miss Seaham?" in answer to Mary's glance of pitying concern.
"The best to be had here, at any rate," laughed the younger Trevor to his companion, as he impatiently pushed away the cruet-stand, from which he had vainly been attempting to extract, for his own use, some remnant of its exhausted contents, "have them replenished immediately I beg," he added, addressing his servant. "Olivia, pray renew your acquaintance with your favourite old sherry; it will be many a long day before that is exhausted. Has Miss Seaham any? Ah, yes!"—with a smile across the table, which cleared away the momentary cloud that had passed over his countenance, and he proceeded to pour himself out a glass, and several others in succession, though his appetite, in other respects, appeared not much better than his father's.
Mrs. de Burgh and Eugene seemed to keep up a brisk and animated conversation, yet it was easy to perceive that they were not inattentive also to the progress of their opposite neighbours, and that Eugene's eye was continually directed towards Mary, with earnest solicitude as to her comfort and entertainment; whilst the complacent smile occasionally exchanged between him and his cousin, demonstrated their sense of the satisfactory progress she seemed to be making in the good graces of her host. For Mr. Trevor appeared in no way uninfected by the peculiar charm Mary had cast around the son. Her quiet, gentle manners, appeared to soothe him and set his mind at ease, whilst at the same time, the intelligent interest and animation in which she entered into all he said, flattered and pleased him.
"You must send Miss Seaham some more mutton; you helped her to only enough to feed a sparrow, you should make allowance for her long drive," he called out quite reproachfully to his son, as Mary's plate was about to be removed by the servant.
"I shall be happy to send Miss Seaham as much as she can possibly eat," said Eugene demurely, "but," he added, as Mary begged to decline a second supply, "I fancy she will prefer a slice of that cake I see on the side table."
"Cake! is there any cake?" exclaimed the old gentleman, looking round in doubtful search of this reported, and as it would have seemed, unexpected and unusual adjunct to his table.
"Oh, of course," Eugene replied, smiling; "all young ladies like cake, and Marryott knows that too well not to have supplied Miss Seaham with one to-day."
"But Marryott," said the old man, somewhat sharply, "did not know till this morning that we were to have ladies to luncheon. You did not tell her till this morning. Eh? How, then, could she have had one made in time?"
"Well then, Marryott is a prophetess, for, at any rate, here is a cake, and a capital one too," the son added, with a little quick impatience in his tone, though at the same time losing none of the respectful consideration, ever peculiarly observable in his manner towards his eccentric old father.
"Formerly, they used to make me cakes and all sort of good things to take to school when I was a boy; why, I wonder, are these, as well as many other good things, now denied me?" Eugene continued, laughing.
"Because you do not deserve them, I suppose," playfully rejoined Mrs. de Burgh.
"I suppose so," he answered rather quickly, a flush passing across his brow, whilst a slight glance was directed towards Mary, as if conscience suggested to his secret soul, one of those whispers which sometimes disturb the proud heart of man in his most careless moments.
"How, then, are you deserving of this good, best thing you are about to appropriate to yourself?"
Perhaps, too, for at the slightest word, "How many thoughts are stirred," his own careless question might suggest this one reply:
"And where is she, the fond, the faithful, and unselfish administrator to the tastes and pleasures of your boyhood—your thoughtless, selfish, slighting boyhood?—that gentle, excellent being, prized too little on earth, too soon forgotten in death, to whom, alas! you too seldom had recourse but when other resources failed you—who gave and did all unrebukingly, looking for nothing in return—never wearying of doing you good?"
"I think sometimes,"—are the words of gentle Charles Lamb—"could I recall the days that are gone, which amongst them should I choose? Not those 'merrier days' not 'the pleasant days of hope,' not those wanderings with a fair-haired maid, which I have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days of a mother's fondness for her schoolboy. What would I give to call her back foroneday, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper, which from time to time have given her gentle spirit pain."
We do not know—we only imagine—we only hope that some such reflections might have suggested themselves to Trevor's mind, for they are those which, however unfrequently indulged—like the droppings on a stone, or as angel's visits, few and far between—cannot leave the heart less hard than the nether millstone—less unredeemable than the forsaken reprobate—quite uninfluenced by their softening power, and the careless words which almost uninterruptedly followed this under current of thought, no way militates against our hopes and wishes on that score—for it is by the careless, outward sign that the deep utterance of the heart is oftenest disguised.
"Olivia," he continued, as he proceeded to cut the cake, "shall I give you some? No? Ah, I forgot, married ladies, I observe, seldom do eat cake;" and he sent round the plate to Mary, whilst Mr. Trevor, though he still kept his eye curiously fixed on the object of discussion, as if he could not yet quite reconcile to his mind the phenomenon of its production, was not ungratified to hear Mary praise it, and finally consented to taste a piece, in obedience to her recommendation; pronouncing himself perfectly satisfied with its merits, inasmuch—as it certainly was not too rich.
Independently of the natural promptings of her disposition, which would have led Mary under any circumstances, to pay every amiable and respectful attention to one of Mr. Trevor's age and circumstances, it had been certainly her anxious desire on this peculiar occasion to find favour in the eyes of Eugene's father, and to this effect—to make herself—as the phrase goes—as agreeable as possible; an endeavour all must know, in which—when the heart has so dear an interest as in the present case—it requires no great art or effort to engagecon amore, and Mary's time and attention thus employed upon the father, it was not very often, though we cannot vouch for how often, her thoughts might have turned in that direction, that she suffered her eyes to wander down the long table towards the son, unless especially addressed.
Perhaps she might not feel quite bold enough as yet to brave the observation of her father-in-law elect in this manner, and it was easy to discover that Mr. Trevor's sharp anxious glances, were of no unobservant a character, therefore it certainly happened that when her eyes did venture to turn from his immediate vicinity, they were oftenest raised towards an object, upon which it was to be imagined, she might gazead libitum, without risk of incurring suspicion or animadversion. It was one of the family portraits, lining the walls of the spacious apartment, and hanging over the fire-place, facing where she sat; not one of the quiet gentlemen in brown lace adorned suits, and powdered bag wigs, but one whose habiliments pronounced him a warrior of still earlier date; and by that noble countenance, Mary's eyes might be seen very frequently attracted, so much so, that towards the close of the repast, when the servants had retired, Mrs. de Burgh called out, across the table:
"Mary, Eugene is quite jealous—that is to say," correcting herself, "Eugene is very anxious to know whether you have quite lost your heart to that gallant ancestor of his over the mantelpiece, for it seems to attract your most earnest interest and attention?"
Mary smiled.
"Not quite," she said, "though he is very handsome, I confess; but what most drew my attention to the picture, is its extreme likeness to a person with whom I am acquainted."
"Indeed!" Eugene exclaimed gaily, "well I cannot say that much mends the matter, does it, Olivia? A likeness to a person Miss Seaham has seen—a likeness too, she owns so handsome, attracting so much interest and attention, that we have scarcely had one glance cast upon us all this long time. We must really make some further enquiries about this 'person.'"
Mary responded to this fond raillery of her lover by an affectionate beaming smile, whilst Mr. Trevor in whose mind his son's words did not appear to awaken any suspicions, began for Mary's edification, to give an account of the name, birth, parentage and exploits of the warrior in question; which Mrs. de Burgh and Eugene interrupted, in the midst, by rising and moving from the table, and the former proposing that they should take Mary to show her over some parts of the house and gardens.
Whereupon the old gentleman expressed his fears that they would find all the rooms worth seeing, "shut, and covered up, and cold—very cold" (though in truth they could not have been much colder than the one in which they now found themselves) "and the garden very desolate"—and then he went off to his library.