CHAPTER IV.

"'And this the world called frenzy; but the wiseHave a far deeper madness, and the glanceOf melancholy is a fearful gift.What is it but the telescope of truth,Which brings life near in utter nakedness,Making the cold reality more cold,'"

quoted Mr. de Burgh for all reply.

"Whatisall this to do with the point in question?" said Mrs. de Burgh impatiently. "Really, Louis, Mary will thinkyoualso decidedly have gone mad."

"Mary likes poetry," he answered quietly; "she will not think it is madness what I have uttered."

"But, Louis, what do you really mean about Eugene's brother?—tell me something about him. I have heard so very little," demanded Mary, earnestly.

"Why do you not make Eugene tell you himself? I can only say:

'He was a man, take him for all in all,I shall not look upon his like again!'"

"He was very handsome—very clever," said Mrs. de Burgh, taking up the theme more prosaically, "and very amiable I believe, though rather impetuous and hot-tempered; always at daggers drawn with his father, because he spent the old man's money a little faster than he liked, it is said."

"Good heavens, Olivia!" burst forth Mr. de Burgh, passionately, "how can you sit there, and distort the truth in that shameful manner? you know as well as I do the true version of this part of the story. Mary," turning to his cousin with flashing eyes, "Eustace Trevor had a mother; an excellent charming creature, whose existence, through the combined influence of her husband and a most baneful, pernicious wretch of a woman, that Marryott, of whom no doubt you have heard, was rendered one long tissue of wretchedness and wrong, the extent of which I believe is hardly known. Eustace, who adored his mother, keenly felt and manfully espoused her cause; therefore, you may see at once this was the reason of his father's hatred of him, and the old man's treatment of this son, was one shameful system of injustice and tyranny—enough, I confess, to drive any man into a state of mental irritation, possessed of Eustace's sensitive temperament."

Mary's wandering, startled gaze turned inquiringly on Mrs. de Burgh, as if to ask whether this new and melancholy representation of the case could be really true. Mrs. de Burgh looked a little disconcerted, but replied carelessly:

"Yes, poor Aunt Trevor! she had certainly a sad time of it; but then it was partly her own fault. She was a weak-spirited creature. What other woman would have endured what she did in that tame and passive manner?"

"Yes, these poor weak-spirited creatures have often, however, strength to bear a great deal for the sake of others," replied Mr. de Burgh, sarcastically. "It would have been more high and noble-spirited, I dare say, to have blazed abroad her domestic grievances; but she had no doubt a little consideration for her children, and the honour and respectability of their house and name."

"Oh, nonsense! that was all very well when they were children to consider them; but when they were men, it signified very little," said Mrs. de Burgh.

"Butthen," suggested Mary, with trembling earnestness, "then she must have had great comfort in their affection and support."

"Yes," answered Mr. de Burgh, "in Eustace she had, I know, unfailing comfort and support."

"And Eugene?" anxiously demanded Mary. "Surely he too—"

"Of course," Mrs. de Burgh hastened to exclaim, "no one could be fonder or kinder to his mother though, because"—looking angrily at her husband—"he had the sense and the discretion not to quarrel with his father, and strength of mind not togo mad—Louis, I suppose, wishes to make you believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother."

"Nothing would make me believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother," added Mary with an earnest energy, which showed with what indignation she would repel this distracting idea.

And Mr. de Burgh replied with great moderation:

"Nor did I say anything of the sort.Iam not at all in the custom of asserting grave charges against a person, without certain proof. I only saw as much into 'the secrets of the prison-house' at Montrevor as would make me very sorry to have had anything further to do with its interior."

Poor Mary! She asked no more questions, she had heard quite enough to give new and dark impressions to her mind. She saw everything in a still more bewildering and uncertain light—yet felt a vague, indefinite dread of further revelation.

Her sister's carriage being speedily announced, she bade adieu to her cousins, who were leaving London the next day, and

"Went like one that hath been stunned,And is of sense forlorn,"

bearing in her secret soul restless doubts and blind misgivings, she shrank even from confiding to her most beloved Arthur.

I knew that in thy bosom dweltA silent grief, a hidden fear,A sting which could be only feltBy spirits to their God most dear,Which yet thou felt'st from year to year,Unsoftened, nay, embitter'd still;And many a secret sigh and tearHeaved thy sad heart, thine eyes did fill,And anxious thoughts thou hadst presaging direst ill.MOULTRIE.

MOULTRIE.

The sequel only brought forth for our heroine further disturbance and discomfort.

The newly-risen impediment to the marriage was of necessity the subject of correspondence. He again threw the blame upon his father, urging his increasing infirmities of mind and body as the excuse.

But the plea appeared to Mary's friends evasive and ambiguous, and greatly indeed was the strength and stability of her affection tried by the urgent solicitations of those so dear to her, that she would consent to break off entirely this ill-starred—and as they the more and more considered it—objectionable engagement.

But no, there was yet one still more dear to her; and to him, through good and evil report, her spirit yet must cling—

"And stand as stands a lonely tree,That still unbroke, though gently bent,Still waves with fond fidelityIts boughs above a monument."

By letter too—for there was one crisis of affairs during which the lovers corresponded on the anxious subject, Eugene failed not to urge the maintenance of an engagement which on his part he declared he would never consent to be the first to relinquish.

Then, how could Mary cast aside an attachment, a hope which had become so linked with the happiness of her existence, that to contemplate its extinction, was to see before her extended

"Dreary and vast and silent the desert of life."

No, rather was she content in doubt, darkness and uncertainty to wait and wander, her hope still fixed upon the distant light in the hazy future.

A position, such as that in which Mary found herself placed—an ill-defined and ambiguous matrimonial engagement—is to a young woman ever, more or less, a misfortune and a trial: something there is in her life

"Incomplete, imperfect, and unfinished,"

comprising also as it must do, much of uncertainty and restless doubt.

The circumstances of Mary's case, rendered hers more peculiarly a subject for such influences. Removed from the sphere in which her lover moved, even their correspondence, after the time just mentioned, entirely ceased; and she heard of him only at intervals—by chance and vague report.

She had longed to have those doubts and repellant ideas, Mr. de Burgh's conversation had insinuated into her mind, cleared away, as she believed they might, by Eugene's own word of mouth. But this had been denied her. She had indeed alluded to the report respecting his brother, which Mr. de Burgh had heard; but Eugene had merely said in reply, that he was taking every measure to ascertain its accuracy; and she heard nothing further on that point.

From Mrs. de Burgh she also ascertained that her cousin Louis had never carried out his proposed expedition, in search of the friend for whom he had professed such warm admiration and interest.

Mary was not so much surprised at this, it being only accordant with her cousin's ineffectual character—warm and affectionate in heart and feeling, but unstable in action and resolve; without self-devotedness or energy in any duty or pursuit, which turned not on the immediate fancy or interest of the moment—something else had probably put the intention out of his head. It did seem to Mary strange and unnatural, that the disappearance of a man such as Eustace Trevor had been represented to her lively and susceptible fancy, should have been so tamely endured by his friends in general, to say nothing of his own brother; but to think on that point was now to raise such a dark and bewildering cloud of ill-defined misgivings, that Mary put it from her mind as much as possible.

There was another point too, on which she indirectly sought enlightenment and assurance. Eugene's mother. Alas! there indeed she had heard enough to make her shudder at the idea connected with much within that house, which she had visited with such pleasure in her unconscious innocence—but more especially with that sinful old man, who, in the garb of venerable old age, had been by her so ignorantly revered; yes, she shuddered to think how appearances may deceive, and shrunk at the thoughts of ever entering again the scene of such wickedness, as long at least as Eugene's father continued there to exist.

That Eugene had in the remotest degree even countenanced that wickedness, was another point she would not allow herself to question—or rather, she put it away, like every other deteriorating rumour, hearsay, or inarticulate whisper, which in the course of time come with its airy hand to point out her lover as unworthy of the devotedness of a heart and affections such as hers; put it away in the utmost recesses of her heart, as we do those things we fear to see or hear substantiated—when even a breath, a word would suffice to destroy the illusion now become so closely interwoven with the happiness of one's existence.

In the meantime, Mary lived chiefly with the Gillespies though her heart's true home was with that dear brother, upon whose progress and success in his profession the chief interest of her life, independent of her one great hope, was centred; and who, on his part, unselfishly devoted every interval between the course of study he so energetically pursued, to her society, endeavouring in every way to promote her happiness or amusement; and chafing inwardly as he did, over the position in which she stood; for her sake preserved outward patience and equanimity, on a point which nevertheless touched him to the quick. Much he heard, too, which made him devoutly wish the engagement with Eugene Trevor to be broken off, without his having courage to take the bandage from his sister's eyes. Much of the private history of these, Eugene Trevor's days—we call them—of probation—nay, the profligate course his love for Mary could not even restrain within bounds. Episodes in his daily walk, with which it is not our intention to sully our pages, but calculated to make the brother's blood boil with indignation at the idea of his pure, spotless sister, becoming the wife of such a man.

But how difficult the task to force on her unsuspecting mind convictions which might go nigh to break her trembling innocent heart—or at least blight the happiness of her life. He must patiently allow fate to work out its course, fervently praying that all might end well.

About a year and a half went by—another six months and Arthur Seaham's term of law study would have terminated; and he declared that to prepare himself for his last important term, it was necessary that he should have some more than ordinary relaxation of mind. He had a fancy to go to Italy, and that Mary should accompany him. She smiled at first incredulously, thinking he was in jest. She thought the idea too delightful to be realised.

He was in earnest, he declared.

But the journey would be so long; and the expense—could they manage it?

What were such considerations to the affectionate brother, when he remarked the glow which had mantled his sister's pale cheeks, or the animation which lit up her languid eye, as in imagination the warm breezes of Italy already fanned her brow—her feet trode lightly on its classic grounds. Their friends had a few prudent objections to the plan—Italy was so far; Germany—the Rhine, were suggested. But no; Arthur saw that Mary's countenance fell when the mark fell short of Italy, therefore he stood firm.

And thither then the brother and sister went, with an old attached maid-servant of the family, who still followed the fortunes of the unmarried daughter; and by the Rhine and Switzerland they proceeded into Italy.

We came to Italy. I feltA yearning for its sunny sky;My very spirit seem'd to meltAs swept its first warm breezes by.WILLIS.

We came to Italy. I feltA yearning for its sunny sky;My very spirit seem'd to meltAs swept its first warm breezes by.

WILLIS.

An early morning in Italy! Who that from experience has not enjoyed—can realise the conception, much less describe, the luxurious delight of the first hours of a summer morning in that radiant climate.

"It was the morn of such a day, as must have risen on Eden first," that Mary Seaham went forth from the little inn near Tivoli, to join her brother who had preceded her some little time to make arrangements respecting their intended excursion of the day.

She waited—but when he did not come, could no longer resist the tempting aspect of the scenery without, to stroll onwards from the house towards the merry waters which danced on their musical way not far distant from the spot; and as she proceeded through the fragrant air—beneath the transparent sky, the sigh she heaved could have been caused but by the burden of enjoyment now weighing upon her senses; for all human care—all sadness, all unrest, all passionate yearnings or pensive remembrances—in short, all unconnected with "the mere and breathing charm of life," seemed in that thrilling hour, annihilated and forgotten.

But something glittering on the ground, near a flower she had stooped to pick, suddenly attracted her attention. She took it up and examined it more closely. It was a massive signet ring. What was Mary's astonishment to see engraved upon the seal, the initials "E. T." with the Trevor coat of arms.

Her first thought was of Eugene—could it be that he by some strange coincidence was near? or that he had purposely followed her to Italy? and her heart beat fast, and her cheek glowed at the suggestion. Yet she had never remembered observing such a ring on Eugene's finger, and then—another indefinite recollection of having somewhere before seen that same impression on some letter, certainly notfromher lover, occurred to her.

Yes—and suddenly the breakfast-table at Silverton, and that letter—the letter to Eugene which she had ever since suspected must have been the turning-point of her previous perfect felicity, but which she had always supposed must have been from Eugene's father. That large red seal the little Louisa had displayed before her eyes. All was now before her. But how then came it lying here upon this foreign soil?

Was it forbidden her to lose, even for a moment, the thrilling consciousness of the fate which bound her, that there should be now thrown across her very path, this startling reminder?

Standing fixed to the spot—turning the signet over and over in her hand, an uncertain, half-bewildered expression on her sweet face—a sudden idea which crimsoned it to the very temples, then leaving it paler than before—suddenly lit up her countenance.

How, indeed, came it lying there? "E. T." Surely from the old man's finger it had not dropped; and if not from Eugene's, might it, could it have been from that of the lost, unhappy, wandering brother, Eustace's?

With what object, what intent, she scarcely knew herself—but impulse moved her, with beating heart and trembling step, to pursue the path which she had taken, only remembering the while, that last night, after she was in bed, there had been an arrival at the inn. Two gentlemen from Rome, thecamerierawho called her in the morning told her, had roused the house up at a very late hour; and that one of these belated travellers had nevertheless already pressed the dewy turf before her—that it might be him who was the loser, was perhaps, the paramount idea which now possessed her as she hurried on over this fair Italian ground as light in limb—alas! less light at heart as when bounding over the breezy wilds of her native land.

She had not been wrong in her conjecture. A sudden turn in the lovely vale she had entered presented to her view, at no great distance from the spot she had attained, a broken fountain, the silvery sound of whose ringing waters faintly reached her ear; and near this, half concealed by the branches of a leaning tree, she discerned the figure of a man, standing watching its light and sparkling play.

A few half irresolute steps brought her nearer and nearer still—a few more, and she stood attracted as if by an irresistible spell almost close behind the object of her search. His face had been turned away, but the light rustling of her garments when she drew so near, attracted his attention.

He looked round, and there stood Mary with parted lips and crimsoned brow—that look of strange, deep, and eager scrutiny directed towards him.

Never did the face of mortal man undergo such immediate change, as did the calm, noble countenance which at the same time revealed itself to the intruder; never were two simple words uttered with such thrilling fervency of tone, as was the ejaculation which broke from the stranger's lips.

"Miss Seaham," he exclaimed; and in accents scarce less earnest in its emotion, Mary's trembling lips faltered Mr. Temple's name.

Yes, it was indeed Edward Temple, upon whom she gazed with ill-defined ideas—and feelings of bewilderment and perplexity—her high-wrought expectations unable all at once to sink themselves to the level of natural composure—pale, agitated, and trembling, without further greeting or explanation,

"She showed the ring."

"I found it," she said with almost hysterical incoherency, "and thought perhaps—but your's it cannot be—and yet it is strange—the initials are the same—but—can it really be, that your crest—your arms also are similar?"

For all reply he gently took the ring from her outstretched hand, and in silence seemed to examine it. Then without looking up, and in a low, calm voice he said:

"You expected I conclude, to find the owner had been Eugene Trevor?"

"No, not Eugene," Mary quietly replied, restored to greater self-possession, "but perhaps, I thought—it was a random idea—that perhaps it might have been his brother Eustace."

The ring dropped suddenly from her listener's fingers, as she uttered these last words.

"And what," he murmured, having stooped to raise it from the ground, "and what interest can Miss Seaham take in that ill-starred, that unhappy man; that outcast, alien brother, that her mistake should cause disappointment, such as I so plainly perceive it to have occasioned her?"

Mary probably attributed to wounded feeling the trembling pathos of the speaker's voice, for with all the simple earnestness of her kindly nature, she hastened in gentle soothing accents to reply:

"Mr. Temple—if disappointment was the first impulse of my feelings—believe me, when I say, there is scarcely any one else," with a weary sigh, the tears gathering in her eyes, "with whom a meeting so unexpected, could just now have afforded me such unmixed pleasure."

For one short moment her hand was retained by the so-called Mr. Temple in a trembling pressure, which appeared to speak all his heart's grateful acknowledgement, whilst those dark eyes fixed themselves upon her face with mournful earnestness of expression.

But the next moment, with a low-breathed sigh, which might have seemed the echo of her own, he released her hand, and turned away his head.

"You are kind to say this," he murmured, "for myself, I can only declare this meeting to be a happiness such as I had hardly expected ever to taste again in this world. But," he anxiously inquired, "will you again permit me to inquire the reason of the more than common—nay even, taking into consideration his relationship—more than natural interest, it would appear you feel in the unfortunate Eustace Trevor."

The earnest melancholy of his tone thrilled on Mary's heart.

"Mr. Temple," she said eagerly, "you speak with feeling on this subject, can it, oh! can it be possible that you have ever seen, ever known Eugene Trevor's brother? Oh, tell me if this is really the case, for you say true—in more than common degree—quite independently of selfish motives, connected with my own happiness—has my interest been excited in his discovery. It has been most strongly awakened in the fate, and history of one who has lately been brought before me in a light so charming yet so sad. Oh! Mr. Temple, you do not deny the fact. Then, tell me, only tell me where he can be found?"

Eustace Trevor had turned upon her the full light of his radiant countenance, radiant with a new and strange delight, the nature of which she could not comprehend; but as, with clasped hands and beseeching countenance, she uttered this latter inquiry, it was answered by a gesture, seeming to imply by her listener ignorance in the required information.

"You, then, did not know him?" she resumed, with renewed disappointment in her tone.

"I did know him—ah, too well!" was the murmured reply, his eyes, with a strange and mysterious expression, fixed upon the ground.

Very pale suddenly grew Mary's cheek as she looked upon him thus. Her lips parted, and her heart beat fast as from the shock of a strange and sudden idea, which flashed across her senses. But she put by the suggestion as the wild improbable coinage of her own high wrought imagination. She remembered too what had struck her often vaguely before, and also her brother's remark on a former occasion, with reference to the same resemblance. But when she looked again, the glowing illusion had faded, her companion was again calmly regarding her, again asking—in what she esteemed a cold and careless tone of voice—from whom it was, she had received the impression respecting Eustace Trevor, to which she had just alluded.

"It was his friend, and my cousin—Louis de Burgh, who first spoke of him to me in such warm and glowing terms; but he chiefly raised my interest by the beautiful but melancholy picture he drew of his devoted affection for his mother—that mother," she added in a low, sad tone, "with whose unhappy history, I then for the first time was made acquainted—indeed it caused his very affliction to become almost holy in my eyes—by showing it to have been but the crisis of his high and sacred grief. Mr. Temple," she continued with enthusiasm; "there seems to me something, if I may so speak, almost God-like in the pure and devoted love of a strong proud-hearted man towards his mother; and itisGod-like, for was not the last earthly thought—the last earthly care of Him who hung upon the cross, even in his mortal agony—for his mother!"

The speaker's glistening eyes were raised above or she might have seen tears indeed,

"Such as would not stain an angel's cheek,"

also irradiating the eyes of that "strong proud-hearted man," as she so expressed herself—who was standing by her side.

But she could not have heard—for it was not breathed for mortal ear, the deep and fervent cry: "My Mother!" which her innocent words, like thrilling music by the winds, struck from the secret chords of that manly tender heart.

But this was a theme Eustace Trevor's melting soul could not trust itself to pursue; not indeed, without it were first allowed him to cast away all subterfuge and disguise, and at the feet of that good, kind, and gentle girl, open his whole bruised and desolate heart, to receive that Heavenly balsam of pity and consolation, she had ready stored within her breast for the faithful son of that wronged and sainted mother!

And could this be done? Had he not for the sake of this same gentle being, in some sort pledged himself to such an extent, that yielding to the impulse would be baseness and dishonour.

Alas! as in all divergement from the direct and natural paths of human action, in whatsoever spirit they may have been entered upon, the time must come—circumstances must arise—when the line of duty becomes bewilderingly shadowy and indistinct, even to the most conscientious and true-hearted.

How few can steer their way unwavering through the straightened pathway of a false position. It is not there, that like a stately ship he can vigorously part the waves of circumstance or temptation,

"And bear his course aright.Nor ought for tempest doth from it depart,Nor ought for fairer weather's false delight."

Therefore, with an effort over his feelings which might have made him appear unaffected by the sentiments his companion had so touchingly expressed, he was forced merely to reply: "Yes, Louis de Burgh was his friend; and it would be very gratifying to Eustace Trevor to know that one friend at least in that world he has abandoned, retains him in such affectionate remembrance. And his brother"—he added, with more hesitating restraint in his tone, "did you never receive anything of the same impression from him?"

"Eugene," Mary answered with some slight embarrassment, "rarely ever enlarged upon a theme which of course had become connected in his mind with painful feelings."

"Painful indeed!" was the other's significant rejoinder.

"Never but once," Mary continued, "did I venture to question him upon the subject with any minuteness, and then he manifested such strong and painful emotion that I never afterwards approached it willingly. But at that time," she added with a sigh, "I had certainly heard very little of his brother, but the dark and terrible malady with which he was afflicted. Mr. Temple," she continued anxiously, "is not his complete disappearance most mysterious and inexplicable? and does it not appear to you almost impossible, that all the means which have been taken for his recovery could have been so completely unattended by success, supposing he were still alive?"

"But have any such means been taken?" her companion asked with some marked curiosity.

"Oh yes!" she hastened to reply "on Eugene's part at least."

A peculiar smile played on her companion's lips. It did not fail to strike Mary, and the incredulity it seemed to imply caused her feelings now so peculiarly sensitive upon that point, to be immediately up in arms.

"Mr. Temple, can you for a moment doubt this fact, he is Eugene's own brother, and—" she added in a low voice, the crimson blood at the same time mantling her cheeks, as the remembrance that she was addressing a rejected lover, pressed more consciously upon her, "he had interests of a different nature, closely connected with the assurance of his lost brother's fate?"

Mr. Temple started with sudden excitement.

"Indeed!" he exclaimed, then averting his head, he added, as if the utterance of each syllable was a separate pang. "Do you mean to say that there is still a question of this marriage?"

"There is," she replied; "though of a very remote and undefined nature, our engagement still subsists."

Having said this with no little embarrassment of manner, the same feeling probably caused her to raise her arm from the fountain, over which she had been unconsciously leaning, and by tacit consent they turned away from the spot, silently beginning to retrace their steps. They had not proceeded thus many yards, when Arthur Seaham appeared in sight, accompanied by a second person, who Mary, with an exclamation of delighted surprise, recognized as Mr. Wynne, concerning whom in the absorbing interest of the last hour she had no time to seek information.

The good clergyman on his part, who had fallen in with her brother at the hotel, was charmed beyond expression by this fortunate and unexpected meeting with his own dear children, (so he called Mary and Arthur;) and peculiar was the glance of interest which beamed from his kindly eyes, as having gazed anxiously into Mary's face, he turned then towards her companion, who nevertheless with his fine countenance only a little paler than usual, was exchanging kind and cordial greetings with young Seaham.

"Oh! Mary, Mary!" the good clergyman whispered, as he drew his fair friend's arm within his own and walked on, the others following together behind, "I have heard sad stories of you, little quiet one, since I saw you last;—trampling noble flowers under your feet, and grasping at thorns, which something in that sweet face of your's tells me have not failed to do their wounding work. This comes of reading all that dreamy poetry I used to warn you against. A good and pleasant thing it is in its degree, but too much of it dazzles and deludes the senses, till at length they come to be unable to discern darkness from light, good from evil. Well! well!" he added, as Mary pretty well accustomed by this time to indirect attacks of this nature, attempted no defence, but with a faint melancholy smile, only drooped her head in silence and resignation. "Ah! well, even now who knows! The Almighty never will permit his little ones to walk on long in darkness, but in the end ever leads them by secret ways into safe and quiet pastures."

The sternHave deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,And when they love, your smilers guess not howBeats the strong heart, though less their lips avow.BYRON.The victory is most sureFor him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strivesTo yield entire submission to the lawOf conscience.WORDSWORTH.

The sternHave deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern,And when they love, your smilers guess not howBeats the strong heart, though less their lips avow.

BYRON.

The victory is most sureFor him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strivesTo yield entire submission to the lawOf conscience.

WORDSWORTH.

"Arthur, this can scarcely be possible," Mary exclaimed with almost trembling solicitude, when alone with her brother, he informed her of the proposal Mr. Wynne had made—and he had unhesitatingly accepted—that he and his friend Mr. Temple should join their party during the succeeding week's tour.

"Not if it is disagreeable to you, Mary, certainly," was the brother's reply; "otherwise I must say I can see no objection to the plan; nor does Mr. Wynne either it seems, as he made the proposal, being of course aware by this time of the past circumstances respecting you and Temple. All that of course is an affair over and forgotten, particularly when made aware how matters stand with regard to your engagement with Trevor; so on your part, you will have nothing to fear. It only rests with him, I should think, to determine whether he is equal to the ordeal of your society, though to judge by his countenance just now, firm and calm as a statue, after a meeting which must have put his feelings rather to the test, I should say there was not much doubt upon the matter.

"'Nay, if she loves me not, I care not for her.Shall I look pale because the maiden blooms,Or sigh because she smiles—or sighs for others.'

No—no, Miss Mary, that is not our way, however it may be with you ladies in cases of the kind.

"'Great or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die e'er she shall grieve,"'Be she with that goodness blest,Which may merit name of best.If she be not such to me—What care I how good she be.'"

"'Great or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die e'er she shall grieve,

"'Be she with that goodness blest,Which may merit name of best.If she be not such to me—What care I how good she be.'"

Thus the brother playfully sung and quoted, though whether the philosophical doctrine the old poet implied in his song had the effect of easing his listener's mind upon the point in question, her faint and absent smile was not exactly calculated to declare; though perhaps could he have read aright the secret history of that anxious countenance, he might have seen how far less any such considerations were agitating his sister's mind than the remembrance of Eugene's strange and angry excitement in the Edinburgh gardens, on the subject of this same Edward Temple; and the question now chiefly agitating her breast to be, whether she could without treason to her lover, place herself in the position and circumstances now under discussion—yet what was she to do? She knew that Arthur could not enter into her feelings on this point; besides, was there not some unconfessed leaning in her secret heart in favour of the arrangement. For that interview of the morning, and the circumstances from which it took its rise; had it not aroused ideas of perplexity, interest, and anxiety in her mind? was there not still much left unaccounted for and unexplained?

She mentioned the ring to her brother. He was surprised, and thought it a strange coincidence, though certainly it did often happen that families of different names, bore the same crests, sometimes the same arms.

Mary's recognition of the impression showed at least there to be, some connection between Eugene Trevor and Mr. Temple. Arthur could easily gain explanation from Mr. Wynne on the subject. He also was often puzzled to know to what family of Temple his friend belonged.

But, before time or explanation was given for any such inquiry, the little party yielding themselves passively as it were to the irresistible force of circumstances which had so singularly united them, were pursuing their way over the enchanted ground Arthur had previously marked out for their excursion, most of which the two more experienced travellers had already explored, but gladly retrode for the benefit of their young companions.

"By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills,In Vallambrosa's convent gloom,Mid Terni's vale of singing rills,By deathless lairs in solemn Rome.* * * * *Ruin, and fane, and waterfall."

They wandered delightedly, and never did Mr. Wynne and Arthur cease to congratulate themselves and one another; the latter, on the valuable acquisition he and his sister had gained in such able cicerones as himself and his companion; whilst Mary and Mr. Temple, by their silence only, gave testimony to the same effect.

Yes, it were well for the good Mr. Wynne and the young and hopeful-hearted Arthur

"Cheerful old age, and youth serene,"

to yield themselves to the charm of sunny skies and classic ground, and to feel almost as if earth wanted no more to make it Heaven.

"A calm and lovely paradiseIs Italy for hearts at ease."

But for the other two, as may be supposed, there wanted something more, or rather something less, to render their enjoyment as full and unalloyed.

For in spite of all Arthur had urged to the contrary, it was too plainly evident that something there was—a restraint—a consciousness, influencing their secret feelings, and imparting themselves to their outward demeanour, in common intercourse one with another; which no exciting or absorbing diversities of scene or circumstance could entirely dissipate or dispel.

Sometimes indeed, Mary, carried away by the delight of the moment, would forget whose eye had fixed itself for a brief moment, with such earnest interest, on her countenance; or even meet unshrinkingly the glance, the smile of sympathy, which her murmurings of enraptured admiration at times drew forth.

Sometimes unconsciously, as if it had been only as a portion of the magic spell which hung on all around her, she found herself listening to that voice, whose few, calm, graphic words had power to throw desired light on some old haunt or story—or touch with a bright glow the scene before them, or oftener turn away with a startled look of anxious thought as if some sudden association or remembrance recalled her to consciousness, and broke the spell.

"Too happy to be your guide and guardian, through scenes and beauty which even your lively imagination is incompetent to conceive!"

Did the words, which had once proceeded from those same lips, thrill upon her recollection? or was it only the jealous disapproval of her lover Eugene which would start up to trouble her on such occasions?

Whilst Eustace—it would be vain to tell what caused the quick transition of that glance or smile into the cold and rigidly averted brow, or caused to die away upon his lips words whose inspiration sprang from a source which could not be worthily encouraged.

Thus, day after day went on, and brought but diminished opportunity of touching on those points of interest so near her heart, and concerning which she more and more became possessed with the vague and restless fancy, that Mr. Temple possessed more power than any one imagined of enlightenment; for she avoided, as much as possible, finding herself alone with him, and if at times, as inevitably it occurred, they were thrown together apart from the other two, Mary's haunting vision of Eugene's jealous disapproval of her intimacy with Mr. Temple would cast a restraint over her feelings, and made her shrink from availing herself of the favourable opportunity thus afforded.

Of course Mr. Wynne—and through him Eustace Trevor had soon learnt from Arthur every particular relating to his sister's situation with regard to Eugene, and the effect produced upon the latter by the circumstances which transpired, was evidenced only by the calm, rigid expression which settled on his interesting countenance—only subdued into soft and gentle melancholy, when at times, unobserved by herself, his eyes could fix themselves on Mary; and as for meeting her half-way, in any renewal of the subject, so particularly discussed near the fountain that first morning of their meeting, he, with almost equal pointedness, might have seemed to avoid any occasion which could tend to its revival.

On the other hand, from Mr. Wynne the more unconscious and unsuspecting Arthur could gain little satisfactorily information on the topic on which he had promised to make inquiries. He always fought off any cross questioning on any particular subject connected with his friend Temple.

Indeed this was easy enough to do; for heart and soul absorbed in the exciting enjoyment of scenes and circumstances in which he entered with such enthusiastic delight, Arthur was not very capable of pressing hard just now upon any serious point, not immediately connected with the interest of the day or the hour.

But when Mary, with whom the old man had hitherto as skilfully warded off any timid attempts on her part to draw him forth on the subject on which he was vowed to secresy—when she, one sultry afternoon, had been conversing for some time so delightfully with her dear old friend, concerning days gone by, in the cool marblesalaof an oldpalazzonear Genoa, where they had found temporary accommodation—without any preparation, fixed her earnest eyes upon her companion's face, and said beseechingly:

"Mr. Wynne, will you answer me one question? you are acquainted I know, with everything concerning Mr. Temple; but I only wish to ascertain one point; was he ever acquainted with Eugene Trevor?"

The good man was taken by surprise, and displayed by his countenance considerable signs of embarrassment, succeeded, however, by equal symptoms of relief, when looking up he beheld Mr. Temple, who had joined them unobserved, and must inevitably have overheard Mary's words, and witnessed the perplexity they had occasioned her friend.

Mary's cheek also flushed deeply; yet when the next moment Mr. Wynne, with some careless excuse for leaving them, had walked away, and she found herself alone with him who best could answer to the question which had scarcely died upon her lips, she took courage, and with her eyelashes sweeping her varying cheek, in a low, yet steady voice, said:

"Mr. Temple, I was asking Mr. Wynne a question, to which for some reason he did not seem able or willing to reply; will you tell me whether you ever knew Eugene Trevor?"

An instant's pause—then, in a tone in which, though calm, there was something unnatural and strange in the sound, there came the laconic reply—"I did."

And then there was a solemn pause. For what could Eustace Trevor add—how reply to the mute but eager questioning of those eyes, now fixed intently upon him, as if in the verdict of his lips there lay more power to ease the heart of its blind fears and nameless misgivings—more in one calm word of his

"Than all the world's defied rebuke."

Therefore, though Mary held her breath, hoping, longing that he should proceed, yet shrinking from more direct inquiry, there he stood, with lips compressed and stern averted eyes; no marble statue could have remained more mute; till to break the ominous and oppressive silence, Mary pronounced the name of "Eustace Trevor."

Then, indeed, her listener's eyes relaxed their fixed expression—a sudden glow lit up his countenance.

In a low, deep tone, and with a soft, melancholy smile, he demanded:

"And what, Miss Seaham, of Eustace Trevor?"

"What of him? Oh! Mr. Temple, all—everything that you may know—may have reason to suspect or conceive concerning him!"

Another pause; and then the voice of Mr. Temple, with renewed sadness replied:

"What could I tell you concerning him, but that he is a wanderer upon the face of the earth, as you—as everybody are aware."

"But why—but wherefore should this be; why forsake his country, his home, his kindred? Now, when Louis de Burgh gave me reason to suppose all further necessity was removed, his temporary affliction entirely subsided, why not return?"

"Return!" interrupted the other—"return with that brand—that stigma—which once attached to his name, must mark him in the eyes of men—a thing of suspicion, nay, of fear for ever; return, when that return must be to hear that curse in every blast—to be cut off from every hope, every tie which makes life beautiful to other men, or—" he paused; for he was on the point of saying, "or—bitter alternative—brand a still worse stigma on another; on one who however unworthy of such consideration, I must still remember as my brother." Thus he probably would have spoken, had not he been recalled to recollection by the strange and anxious expression depicted on Mary's countenance, and then he added, with an effort at self-command:

"The imputation of madness is a fearful thing, Miss Seaham, to be attached to a man's name; and Eustace Trevor, unfortunate man! is possessed of feelings most sensitive—morbidly sensitive, perhaps."

"It is—it is," Mary faltered, "a fearful thing if suffered to rest there; but surely his is not the course to accomplish the removal of the idea. Let Eustace Trevor but return—let him at least try and experience what a brother's kindness—what a sister's love can do, to wipe from his remembrance the morbid memory of his past affliction; and show to the world (if he fears its altered smiles) that the shock his noble mind sustained was but for a moment; that he is—"

But it was enough—those words, a brother's kindness—still more, a sister's love, had thrilled acutely upon the listener's heart.

And Mary paused, startled to behold the expression in the eyes bent so earnestly upon her.

"A sister's love!" what was such love to him!

However, with another strong effort he said in a voice scarce audible from emotion, "For such a sister's love, he might indeed brave and defy the scorn—the ignominy of the universe; but," he faltered, "it cannot be."

A silence of some minutes ensued. It was broken by Mary, who said in an anxious trembling voice,

"Mr. Temple, I have a favour to ask of you: I know you are acquainted with much of the private history of the Trevors—I amsureyou are—I therefore entreat you will speak candidly upon the subject, and tell me your own opinion of Eugene Trevor. To you I can speak as I feel I can to no one else. My mind of late has been disturbed by doubts and fears upon the subject of Eugene. I know youcan, youwillspeak the truth; so conceal not your real opinion from me."

"Miss Seaham, excuse me," Mr. Temple replied gravely, and with a degree of proud coldness. "I must decline to speak in any way of Eugene Trevor. It is a long time now since we have met."

"Oh, why—why," faltered Mary, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, "would you too, like the rest, by your looks, even by your silence, make me suspect the worth, the rectitude of Eugene, and give me the miserable idea that the affection and heart's devotion now of years have been wasted and bestowed in vain?"

It was a difficult moment for that generous, noble soul. The peculiar situation in which he was placed almost bewildered his sense of discernment between what was right and wrong in his position, and darkened the way before him. How act—how speak—how meet this critical emergency?

The struggle must have been indeed intense, which enabled him at length to rise a conqueror over the conflicting powers which beset his soul, to subdue all selfish promptings of inferior nature—all selfish impulses and considerations; and speak and act as one might have spoken and acted who had never been Mary Seaham's lover, or Eugene Trevor's injured brother.

As a brother to a well-beloved sister—or as one of his high and holy calling might have seized that favourable opportunity for endeavouring to turn a perplexed and trembling suppliant on his counsel and assistance from some dangerous path or fatal delusion, he took up the strain, and implored her not to seek from him any further information on a subject—concerning which he must tell her at once, that for many reasons it was impossible for him to enter—he could not speak of Eugene Trevor. But he implored her to think well of those warnings so strongly pressed upon her consideration by her anxious friends—above all, by the internal evidence of her own pure soul—against a course of action in which the peace and happiness of her future life might be so fatally involved.

"Talk not of wasted affection," he touchingly exclaimed; "affection disinterested and blameless as yours, was never wasted—never bestowed in vain—for some good purpose, the All Wise so willed that you should for a time bestow it, and if He ordains that its waters should turn back, like the rain to their springs, He wills also that they should fill them with refreshment. Miss Seaham, it is not for me to advise you to break off your engagement with Eugene Trevor. I am the last person in the world—situated towards you as I have been"—he added in a low sad voice, "who ought to presume so to do; but let me speak to you, as you may remember I once before addressed you—before it had ever entered my heart to conceive you would stand in the position you now are in towards this Eugene Trevor. Did I not then warn you of the world into which you were hastening so unwarily—of its sins, its sorrows, and its snares; but still more, of its friendships, its smiles, its Judas kisses, awaiting not alone the eagle but the dove—the holy, harmless, and undefiled? Andnowdo not my gloomy words find an echo in your heart? does not that look of care, that heavy sigh, confess that it had been better never to have tasted of the feverish joy, the unsatisfying delight, in exchange for the peace and tranquillity you had hitherto enjoyed? Is not your confidence disturbed—your trust shaken in the object on whom your affections have been set? do you not fear to lean more heavily on that reed lest it pierce you—to grasp it firmer, lest you crush, and prove its hollowness? Oh, Miss Seaham! is not this in some degree the case with you? if so, do not seek to dive further into the why or the wherefore. Let God's providence have its way, when, it seeks to turn you from a course it is not good for you to follow. Let faith and patience have their perfect work; seek peace and happiness from a higher, surer source than the dubious object on which your affections have been placed."

Mr. Temple paused, but he had no reason to suppose his earnest appeal had been as water spilt upon the ground; for something in Mary's face—that something, which had become of late its ruling and habitual expression, which might have seemed to breathe forth the Psalmist's weary longing for "the wings of a dove to fly away and be at rest"—at rest, from the ever receding hopes—the sickening doubts and apprehensions—the wearying mysteries attendant on her position, which pressed so heavily on a nature formed rather for the peace and calm of gentle emotions, of peaceful joys, than for its strife of passions, its storm of woes; an expression which had appeared to Eustace Trevor to deepen as he spoke, for not for a moment did he dare to interpret it otherwise. Never did he surmise—neverdareeven to desire—that words uttered with such disinterested and single-minded intention, and in accents tremulous with such unselfish emotions, could in any other way affect his listener's heart. That in that hour of languid yearning for strength she felt that she did not possess; for rest and peace founded on some surer basis than that "reed shaken by the wind," such as her inauspicious love had gradually assumed the semblance, she should be most ready to lean her weary head on the noble breast, cling to the sheltering arm of him who thus had counselled her, and placing her destiny in his hands, ask him to guide her future course through the deceitful bewildering mazes of this life.

But no word, no look betrayed the secret impulse of her heart; and in the same anxious strain Eustace Trevor proceeded:

"Darkly, ambiguously, I have been compelled to speak; the subject having been, as you can bear witness, forced in a manner upon me; yet one step further I will take, and leave the rest in the hands of God. This ring," drawing the signet from his finger, where for the first time since the adventure in which it had formed a part, Mary had again seen it; "keep it," he continued, in a voice tremulous with emotion as Mary mechanically received it in her hands, looking wonderingly and enquiringly in his face; "keep it till you seehim, Eugene Trevor again; then show it to him fromme—from Edward Temple. Tell him the circumstances under which you received it, and ask him to clear up the mystery concerning it. If he refuses, then for his own sake as well as your own, I conjure you to bid him farewell for ever. If on the contrary, casting off all falsehood and deceit, he lays all before you, then—then—may Heaven direct the rest!"

An hour or two after Mary had been left alone within the marblesala, almost as in a dream, gazing upon that mysterious and momentous ring, the little party were proceeding northwards in the cool of the evening, in one of the hired conveyances of the country. Mary, her brother, and Mr. Wynne occupying the interior; Mary being only at a later stage of the journey, confirmed in her supposition of Mr. Temple having proceeded thus far on the outside, for since he had parted abruptly from her he had not again appeared.

Then, however, when, to change horses, they stopped before a road-side inn, her brother suddenly touched her arm, and directed her attention towards the spot, where in the shadow of the door, his features only partly distinguished in the declining evening light, stood the tall and stately figure of Temple, apparently conversing with Mr. Wynne who had just alighted, though his eyes were fixed earnestly in their direction.

"Look, Mary, does it not strike you now?"

"What, Arthur?"

"That likeness; there just as he stands in that uncertain light?"

Mary for all reply shuddered slightly, and turned away her head. The next moment Mr. Wynne had rejoined them, and they started again.

But by the inn-door there still stood that dark figure.

Arthur, with an exclamation of surprise, put forth his head, and inquired why they had left Mr. Temple behind.

"Because—because," Mr. Wynne replied in a peculiar tone of voice, "he has taken it into his head not to travel any further with us just now. I shall rejoin him when I have seen you safe at Genoa, for I cannot make up my mind to part so suddenly with my two dear children. Temple desired me to bid you good bye, Arthur, for he has no great fancy for leave-takings, at any time; and I was to say farewell for him to you too, Miss Mary."

This he said in a more serious manner, taking Mary's hand as he spoke, and gazing earnestly into her face. The hand he held was very cold, and on the pale face there was a strange and anxious expression; but whilst Arthur was loud in his professions of surprise and regret at this unexpected deprivation, Mary uttered no word of astonishment or regret.

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