As they, who to their couch at nightWould win repose, first quench the light,So must the hopes that keep this breastAwake, be quenched, ere it can rest.MOORE.
As they, who to their couch at nightWould win repose, first quench the light,So must the hopes that keep this breastAwake, be quenched, ere it can rest.
MOORE.
We left Mary yielding herself to the passive impression made upon her mind by the startling results of that strange conversation; then gradually that mind began to rouse itself to think, and form, and deliberate as to what was to be done—or ratherwasthere anything to be done? Was hers to be the tongue to blaze about the woman's story, to give substance and a shape to the airy-tongued aspersions brought against her lover's name—was this her woman's part? Oh, no; yet something she had to do—some part to act?
Under the influence of this impulse it was that she arose, and going to a writing-table, sat down, and wrote to Eugene Trevor; not to accuse—not to condemn—not even to attack him in the mildest terms with the grave charge she had heard laid against him.
There was no such spirit as this in Mary; though the mere reminiscences of past words and looks which had escaped her lover in moments of uncontrol, but more still the words he had left unspoken—the looks so sedulously avoided, rose before her remembrance, and flashed fearful conviction on her mind; the more her soul shrunk from the dark idea now connected with her lover's history, the more did her heart bleed for him, who must all along have carried in his breast so heavy a load of conscience, upon whose life one fatal remembrance must have cast its bleak and dreary shade, whose smile must have hidden so aching a heart—whose laugh, which had so often rejoiced her soul, must have rung forth so false and hollow from his breast; and as love seemed startled from its seat, so did a great compassion usurp its place within her soul.
And he, the persecuted, the alien—how far less for him she felt were tears of pity due!
No, addressing Eugene in the subdued and broken terms which more touchingly spoke the feeling actuating her heart than any stern or solemn eloquence of appeal could have done, she began by alluding to the distressing interview of the preceding night; she gave him to understand her determination, that it should be final—that it had become the gradual conviction of her mind, that it was not fit that they should ever be united—before she had seen him, indeed, she had promised her brother that their inauspicious engagement should be brought to an end. Since then a terrible story had been sounded in her ear—one she had not courage to repeat—she would only say it related to his conduct to his brother, of whose identity with Mr. Temple she now was fully aware. Mary asked for no confession or denial of the imputation, but she told him simply where that brother was to be found, and implored him no longer, if innocent, to countenance such an implication, by consenting to continue his present false position in his father's house, under cover of so baseless a plea as that which had made his brother an exile. But if any shade of truth rested on the story, why then what remained, but that full reparation which would bring peace and happiness to his own soul—greater peace and happiness, she was sure, if a single shade of guilt in this respect had laid upon it than he ever could have tasted since the dreadful moment when first it rested there? She was sure, though bitter words had been wrung from him in the excitement of last night's conversation, that he would feel convinced of the disinterestedness of the feelings which prompted her anxiety in this affair—that she would have pleaded for the interest of an utter stranger, as now she pleaded for the valued friend whom, whatever circumstances accrued, it was probable she should never see again. Mary alluded but slightly to the prospects of her own future, and that only to express how its altered aspect would be cheered and brightened by the knowledge that this just and necessary line of conduct had been adopted.
Mary had been interrupted in the middle of her letter by the return of Miss Elliott from the courts. Little dreaming the nature of the correspondence over which she found her sad friend employed, there was enough revealed in her manner and countenance to bespeak the anxiety and painful absorption of her mind.
Even Miss Elliott's glowing description of the success, superior to that indeed of the preceding day which had attended her brother's exertions, in a case of considerable interest and importance (a report delivered not without many beautiful blushes on the fair speaker's part), even this scarcely seemed to have power to concentrate and excite her listener's languid and abstracted attention.
"Dear Miss Seaham, have you been sitting writing here all the time I have been away? if so, it is very naughty of you, for you do not look fit at all for the exertion. I am sure you must be more ill than you will allow us to suppose—and without your own maid too."
"I fainted last night, a thing I have not done since I was a child; of course to-day I feel rather weak and languid, in consequence," Mary replied, seeing it was necessary to account in a more satisfactory manner, for her wretched appearance.
"Fainted, my dear Mary, what could have been the cause?"
"I suppose the heat of the court, all the excitement and agitation of the day, had something to do with it," Mary answered hurriedly; "but pray do not tell Arthur, I would not have him annoyed with any anxiety on my behalf just now. I feel rather tired, having had a long visit from poor Jane Marryott and this letter too to write; when it is over," with a faint smile, "I trust you will find me a more agreeable companion."
Carrie Elliott took the gentle hint, and pressing her rosy rips on Mary's cheek, in her graceful caressing manner, went away to her own apartments.
"Oh, happy Arthur!" thought Mary as with tears starting to her eyes, she returned to her painful task. "Oh, why is it," asked the swelling heart, "that such different lots are appointed to human beings? why are some destined to be thus privileged and blest, whilst others are suffered, like myself, by a strong delusion, to place their hopes and happiness upon unworthy objects; to feed on ashes—to lean on reeds which pierce them, to be wounded—disappointed in their tenderest affections." What had there been in her blameless life to draw upon her such retribution? But these were but the murmuring risings of the moment—in another, that spirit humble, contrite and resigned, which unquestioning kisses the rod of Him who hath appointed it, had resumed its customary place within the writer's breast.
Eugene's letter concluded, Mary did not pause there. She felt there was one more step to be taken. She wrote to Mr. Wynne; she told him in a few emphatic words, how from a source bearing only too strong a stamp of veracity, doubts and suspicions which had long vaguely agitated her mind, had received perfect confirmation; namely, that Mr. Temple was no other than Eustace Trevor, the brother of Eugene. "But it is not this fact, dear Sir," she continued, "which most concerns and distresses me; it is the strange, and fearful story, which for the first time, in one terrible moment was revealed to me. I allude to the conduct of Eugene towards his brother. You, dear friend, I am convinced, are fully informed of every particular respecting Mr. Eustace Trevor's history. I implore you then to tell me, is there entire truth in this awful tale; and if so, to entreat your injured friend to allow no farther guilt to be accumulated on the unhappy offender's soul. I have even ventured to write to Eugene, and entreated him to take the first step towards atonement and reconciliation; but if my feeble influence fail, then help him to cast aside those morbid feelings and ideas (noble and generous in their origin as they were) which hitherto actuated his conduct, and to return to England—to the world—reassert his rights—the lawful place in his country and amongst his friends. Whether his unhappy brother comes forward in this cause or not, still let him act, as alas! presumptuous as it may be for me to speak thus, to one so far above me, it had been well for all he had long since acted. What but woe could come when the righteous and the true fled before the face of wickedness and deceit—stooped to false disguises with a heart and conscience which could have defied the united malice of the world. Let him return; all that is merciful I am fully convinced, as far as is consistent with human justice, will sway the conduct of one, so true and faithful a follower of that Divine Being, whose long-suffering forgiveness to the vilest offenders against His goodness, no man can fathom."
This letter proved of the two, the most agitating and trying to Mary's feelings; so that when her brother, just after its completion, entered the room, he found his sister's cheeks no longer pale as Miss Elliott had left them, but burning with a false and feverish excitement.
He questioned her affectionately about her health; for though she at first, with a forced vivacity, congratulated him fondly on the brilliant report she had heard of him from so eloquent a source, the brother had not failed in the meantime to observe her quivering lips, the glittering restlessness of her eyes, and the trembling hands with which she sealed the letter before her.
"Dear Arthur," she said, with a melancholy attempt at a smile, "I am as well as one in my position can be, for look," she added hurriedly, "I have done your bidding," and she took up one of the letters and placed it in Arthur's hand.
The brother started as he read the direction, then looked up anxiously into his sister's face.
"Mary, have you really done it?"
She bowed her head.
"And you are finally free of the engagement?"
"I am."
"And you do not repent of what you have done?"
"No."
"And you do not find it very painful?"
A wan smile was the answer.
"Dear Mary!" the brother exclaimed, turning away to hide a bright drop that started to his eye, "how shall we ever be able to repay you for all you have suffered so long and patiently?"
A smile again played upon her lips, as she marked thewefor the first time used in a speech of this nature, and putting her hand in her brother's, she replied:
"By allowing me to witness your happiness, dear Arthur."
Too much occupied with unselfish concern for his sister, the young man did not understand the speech as it was intended; but after a moment's anxious consideration, inquired:
"Mary, has anything occurred since our conversation the day before yesterday, to hasten this step? I know that Trevor went away early this morning, but had you any meeting with him yesterday?"
"I had," she answered, colouring deeply; "but, Arthur," in a faltering voice, "spare me any further questions; let what I have done suffice."
"Selfish—heartless—double-hearted," were the emphatic murmurings of the young man's lips, as he turned away with dark and moody brow, "would thatImight ask a few questions of him."
"Arthur!" Mary exclaimed, laying her hands reproachfully on his shoulder, "you will make me believe that after all you are vexed and disturbed that our engagement is over."
"No, Mary, Heaven knows that is not the case; but still, it makes my blood boil to think how you have waited so long and faithfully, and that after all your trust and patience will have been all in vain, that your precious affection should have been wasted."
"Then, Arthur, console yourself with the assurance that I grudge no measure of faith and patience I may have exerted. Faith and patience can never be in vain; would that was all I have now to mourn over. As for wasted affection—affection never can be wasted," unconsciously quoting the words once sounded in her ear, in tones which ever since had lingered there. "My affection, though blind, perhaps, and mistaken, was pure and innocent. God will not suffer it to return fruitless to my bosom."
Arthur Seaham was obliged to go and prepare himself for the judge's dinner, and Mary to exert herself during hertête-à-têteevening with Miss Elliott.
The next day she was too ill to rise. Her maid was sent for, and with her Mary a day or two after went to a pretty cottage not far distant, belonging to her brother, where he was soon to join her. The Morgans were not then in the country.
But now, alas! the place seems changed,Thou art no longer here:Part of the sunshine of the sceneWith thee did disappear.LONGFELLOW.Confess! Record myselfA villain!VENICE PRESERVED.
But now, alas! the place seems changed,Thou art no longer here:Part of the sunshine of the sceneWith thee did disappear.
LONGFELLOW.
Confess! Record myselfA villain!
VENICE PRESERVED.
Mary Seaham's letter reached Montrevor the day after Mabel Marryott's funeral. Eugene Trevor tore it open eagerly, turned ashy pale as he perused it, then, thrusting it into his pocket, went about his business as before.
Day after day went by, and the letter remained unanswered—unacted upon.
With sullen defiance, or silent contempt, Eugene Trevor seemed to have determined upon treating the earnest appeal the important requisition it contained. The appeal he endeavoured to consider it of a weak, simple woman, who probably looked upon an affair of so serious—nay, he was forced to acknowledge, so fearful—a nature in no stronger light than that of some romantic fiction, only costing the actor engaged in it the struggle of some heroic and high-wrought feeling to bring the matter to a satisfactory issue; and who little knew that it would have been far easier to him to put a pistol to his head, than to draw down upon himself such ruin—in every sense of the word—as the sacrifice so calmly required of him by the fair and gentle Mary Seaham must entail.
"Senseless girl! what! recall my father's incensed heir to his admiring friends, now all up in arms at the treatment—the persecution, they would call it—that he had received at my hands! restore him in all the strength and brightness of his intellect, striking conviction to every mind as to the truth of the testimonies, which would not fail to start up on every side, to substantiate the false nature of the plea which had alienated him from his lawful rights. Then how would vague reports find confirmation! surmises, suspicions be brought to light! And what would become ofme? what would become of my debts—my character—my honour—my covetousness?"
If these were in any sort the reflections which influenced Eugene Trevor for the next week or so after the receipt of Mary's letter, that letter seemed to have had at any rate the power of subduing for a time his energies and courage in the prosecution of former designs.
He made no attempt to alter his father's obstinate determination to keep wholly to his bed. He seemed suddenly to have lost his anxiety as to securing the will, and discovering the remaining forged notes. He was moody, gloomy, apathetic. One day chance took him to that part of the house where his mother's boudoir was situated. Pausing as he passed the door, he pushed it open, and entered.
The window was open—the sunbeams played upon the old quaint furniture, the room seemed fresh, and bright, and clear, in comparison with the rest of the house; which ever since Marryott's death and funeral seemed to have retained the influence, and impressed him with those revolting ideas attached to the signs and ensigns of mortality entertained by the mind who cannot, or dare not, look beyond those consequences of corruptibility for the object of that fearful power. A dark, pall-like covering seemed spread over the whole house; a close, sickly atmosphere to pervade it throughout.
But here—all this seemed to have been effectually shut out, as if the destroying angel, as he brushed past with hasty wing, had seen the mark upon that door, which forbade him entrance; and Eugene Trevor went and stretched his head out of the window, breathing more freely than he had done for many a day.
Suddenly, however, he drew back; the action had brought to his remembrance just such another clear, bright sunny day, when he had last stood leaning in that position; but alas! how differently accompanied.
Then alone with a fair, pure, gentle girl—her sweet presence, her tender voice, infusing into his soul an influence which for the time had lifted him almost above himself into a paradise of thought—of feeling he had long since forfeited; and now alone—alone with his own dark jarring thoughts—alone with that juggling fiend impenitent remorse gnashing at his heart—alone with his present disquiet—with the threatening fear of the future—the withering memories of the past. Well might he have cried aloud for the lost dream which suggested this comparison—a dream indeed false and treacherous in its foundation; for except that conscience slept undisturbed, how was he different then to what he is now. And yet he would fain have recalled it, for suddenly with that association seemed to have taken hold upon his fancy a passionate yearning, an impatient regret that he had not been able to secure possession of the being who had at that time certainly exercised a very worthy influence over his affections. A tormenting idea that his marriage at that period might have warded off the evils now circling threatening around his head; or at the worst have given him a fond and devoted sharer in his fortunes, such as in the whole world he knew not where to look for now. For how she had loved him! Yes, it was pleasant and soothing to his feelings, in their present ruffled state, to remember that he had been loved so tenderly, so purely, so entirely for himself alone: and then came the stinging reaction—the remembrance that he was no longer loved—that he had seen a look of fear, almost of aversion, usurp the place of confiding affection in those soft and loving eyes: that finally, she had fainted from mere abhorrence at the idea of the promise he had pressed so urgently upon her—then too, when it seemed she had not heard the story which proved the cause and subject of her letter.
No—but she had been in Italy with his brother, that martyr-hero—fascinated, enthralled, no doubt,—and he must lose, relinquish her too. No, by heaven! that he would not do—that weak, pale, soft-hearted girl, should he passively resign his power over her also? villain or not as she might deem him, he must make her to believe it were cruelty, perjury, and sordid unfaithfulness, to desert him now—to break her vows, because she had discovered that there was one with better claims than himself to the fortune and expectations she had imagined him to possess.
In this new mood Eugene went to pay his customary morning visit to his father's room, and there fresh fuel was added to the fire lately kindled in his breast.
The old man had for the last few days taken a different turn. At first, as we have said, his disenthralment from Marryott's guardianship had been a relief to his mind; but to this feeling had succeeded a restless disquiet as to the consequences of the removal of this Cerberus of his household, and the destruction both of himself and property, fraud, robbery, poisoning, fire, ruin and destruction in every possible shape, seemed to be hanging over his head by a single hair. He was in a perpetual fear whenever he found his son had left the house.
The day to which we allude, Eugene Trevor was assailed with the usual amount of murmuring and complaint.
"Eugene, a pretty state we are in now. I should like to know what's to become of us if we go on much longer in this manner."
"In what way, my dear Sir? everything seems to go on very quietly; really, with scarcely half a dozen servants in the house, and all the plate safe in the bank, I do not think there's any chance of much harm being done."
"No harm? Gracious powers! how do you know what abominations of extravagance are not going forward—you who are always sleeping miles away from the wretches, and know not how I may be robbed, and cheated, and eaten out of house and home. I'll tell you one thing, Eugene, I am determined I'll get to the offices, if I'm carried there, and see to a fraction every bit of meat weighed that comes into the house, asyouwon't help me."
"My dear Sir, I would do everything in my power, I assure you, but the chief object at present I think will be to try and find some second Marryott, who, I hope," with a sneering emphasis on the words, "you will find an equal treasure of honesty and faithfulness as the other."
"I don't want another Marryott," whined the old man, peevishly; "I won't have a housekeeper at all, with their forty-guinea wages—they are as bad as any of them—Marryott understood my ways—"
"And your coffers too, Sir," added Eugene, with a scornful laugh. "A pretty hoard she had at the bank. I am sorry she made no will; I, as her foster-son, might have been the better for it; but as it is, it belongs to her husband, if he is yet alive."
"What's the use of telling me all thisnow," whimpered the father, "when you let her go on doing it without giving me a hint?"
"Oh, my dear Sir, she saved it for you in other ways! 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' you know, at any rate she let no one rob you but herself, which, as so very old and faithful a servant, of course she considered herself privileged to do; but set your mind at ease," he continued more soothingly, as the old man writhed upon his bed, groaning in agony of spirit, "I'll make it my business to find some honest, decent woman, who at least will not be able to claim the privilege of common property on the above-mentioned score."
"But how can you be sure of her being decent and honest?" still persisted Mr. Trevor; "there's not one amongst the race, I believe, that is so. I'll have nothing to do with any of them. I will tell you what, Eugene," and the old man's eyes gleamed at the sudden suggestion, "the only thing that's to be done—why don't you get a wife, and bring her to live here, and keep the house?"
Eugene Trevor's brow darkened.
"A bright idea, Sir," he responded, ironically.
"Yes, yes," continued the old man; "what are you thinking of, Eugene, that you don't marry? you're getting on in life; I was married before I was as old by half. What's to become of the family and fortune—if there's any left of it—if you don't marry?"
His son's eye brightened.
"And by the bye, now I think of it," the father continued, craftily, "what became of that pretty young lady you brought here with Olivia, to that grand luncheon some time ago? I liked her—her voice was soft and gentle, and her manners sensible and quiet. She was something like your mother, Eugene, when I married her; now why could she not do for you?"
"You remember, Sir, that when I did propose making her my wife, it did not meet with your unqualified approbation," replied his son, evasively.
"Oh, didn't it! but that was long ago—then Marryott was here to look after things, and she, I suppose, didn't like it; but now couldn't you look her out again—she isn't gone, is she—you have not lost her?"
Eugene set his teeth hard together and did not immediately reply; but then he said, fixing his eyes on the old man's face, and speaking in tones of affected carelessness:
"After all, I do not see howmymarriage can be an affair of suchgreatconsequence, for you know, Sir, there is Eustace."
The old man's face convulsed terribly—that name had not for many years past been uttered by Eugene or any one in his presence.
"Eustace," he murmured tremblingly, "and what has it to do with Eustace—isn't he mad, or dead, or something?"
"He is not dead, certainly, Sir; and mad or not, he might be coming back any day, to put in claims which would not make my marriage so very desirable or expedient a business."
Mr. Trevor looked fearfully around him.
"But, Eugene," he gasped in a low, breathless whisper, "he's not near—he's not likely to come and threaten me. You must keep the doors fastened—you must keep him locked out."
"Oh, my dear father!" his son responded, "there's no such immediate danger as all that; he's far enough off, and not likely to trouble you: only I mean, if—if anything were to happen—then—then, of course, he would be here to look after his own interests; for he's on the watch for your death, I have been told on good authority, and therefore of course you know it would not do formeto run any risk—to marry for instance—unless I can see my way a little more plainly before me."
The old man became livid with rage; all his ancient hatred against his son seemed to revive at the suggestion thus insinuated against him.
"To watch for my death! and what then will that do for him—the bedlamite? Eugene! Eugene!" grasping his arm, "never fear him—go and get married—bring your wife here to look after the house, and I'll live another half century to spite him, and then see who'll have it all. We've got a will, Eugene, haven't we?" chuckling and rubbing his hands exultingly.
"There was one made certainly, and a deed giving me the guardianship over the entailed estates in case of your death, under plea of Eustace's incompetency. But if you remember, you would not have a duplicate made of it. I hope you have it safe."
"I'll look it out, Eugene," Mr. Trevor continued as if effectually aroused by the new friction his old heart had received. "I have it safe enough. I'll get up immediately—no, not to-day, but to-morrow. I'll make a day of it, and put all things right."
"Very well, my dear Sir; keep yourself quiet for to-day. My man is here, you can trust in him should you want anything. I'm going to ride for an hour or two."
"Eh—to ride—where? I can't be left," the old man whispered.
"Oh, my dear Sir, William will take as good care of you as myself. I'm really expiring for want of fresh air, and exercise. I'm going to ride over to Silverton on a little business—to make inquiries you know about my wife," he added, looking back with a laugh as he left the room.
Oh! it is darkness to lose love, howeverWe little prized the fond heart—fond no more!The bird, dark-winged on earth, looks white in air!Unrecognised are angels till they soar!And few so rich they may not well bewareOf lightly losing the heart's golden ore!WILLIS.
Oh! it is darkness to lose love, howeverWe little prized the fond heart—fond no more!The bird, dark-winged on earth, looks white in air!Unrecognised are angels till they soar!And few so rich they may not well bewareOf lightly losing the heart's golden ore!
WILLIS.
Eugene Trevor accordingly mounted his beautiful horse, all fierce and fiery for the want of exercise, and rode fast to Silverton without scarcely once slackening his steed's pace. Just as he approached the mansion, he raised his eyes to a chamber window above. Strange to say, he never drew near the house without being moved with a pang smiting at his heart, fraught with more or less of regretful recollections; for he could not but remember whose gentle eyes had so often watched for him there.
But to-day, a darker and more determined spirit spoke in the upward "flash of that dilating eye," as his horse's hoofs clattered over the stony approach.
Mrs. de Burgh only, he heard to his satisfaction was at home, and she was confined to her dressing-room with a sprained ankle, but no doubt would see Mr. Trevor—a supposition in which the servant was quite correct.
Mrs. de Burgh was only too delighted to have the tediousness of her confinement thus broken in upon, particularly as she was hoping to hear all about Marryott's death, and the strange circumstances connected with the forged notes of which only vague and contradictory reports had reached her ear.
Having, therefore, first accounted for her accident, and giving vent to some complaining strictures on Louis's unfeeling conduct in leaving her alone; whilst he went visiting and amusing himself in Scotland, making it indeed appear an act very unconjugal and unkind, till it came out that Mr. de Burgh's departure had taken place before her accident; and that she had in her fretful pique never written to inform her husband of what had occurred.
After this the fair lady began to question her cousin concerning the late events at Montrevor, and Eugene Trevor to satisfy her curiosity as far, and in the manner he deemed most expedient.
"So you see, Olivia," he added, "altogether I have had a pretty time of it lately, what with one thing and another, and have been terribly put out."
"Well, I thought there was something the matter, as you had quite deserted Silverton."
"Plenty the matter; but there was one subject I came on purpose to speak to you about to-day; you were always my friend in need, Olivia, and I want to consult you—I mean about Mary Seaham."
"Oh, indeed!" replied the lady, with a suppressed yawn, and a tone in which the words "that weary old subject" seemed expressed; for there is nothing which in the end so much wears out the sympathy and interest of one's friends, however much excited they may have been in the beginning, as a protracted love affair.
"Oh, indeed! have you seen or heard anything of her lately?" Mrs. de Burgh then inquired with assumed interest.
"Yes, I saw her at —— after the trial, at which, you know, I had to appear. She was there with her brother, who was retained for the prisoner."
"Indeed, how did she look? is she much altered, poor girl?"
"I don't know," he answered gloomily; "she looked pale; but then, our interview was of no very pleasing nature, and.... But I have heard from her since then," he added, in the same tone, without concluding the former sentence; "she writes to break off the engagement."
"Well, Eugene, you can scarcely wonder; you must own, you have tried her patience to the very uttermost," his cousin answered, smiling reproachfully; "but it is just the way with you men," she continued, as she scanned more closely the working of Eugene's countenance, "you would keep us waiting till doomsday to serve your own convenience, without one scruple of concern; but if we begin to show any disposition to be off, then you are, forsooth, the injured and aggrieved; well, however, is it not as well? What profit or pleasure can such an engagement be to you, who year after year seem no nearer the end than at the beginning? and as for your father, I believe he's 'the never-dying one.'"
"But, Olivia, matters have lately taken a different aspect," her cousin muttered, gloomily, "my father is urging me to marry, and would do anything to further it. I would marry her to-morrow, if it could only be managed."
"Well, why not tell her so. I suppose it was only the apparent hopelessness of the case which induced her to give you up—tell her at once."
"I did tell her when I saw her last—more, I pressed an immediate marriage urgently upon her; but," with a bitter laugh, "the idea has become so repugnant to her feelings, that she absolutely fainted with horror and aversion."
"Nonsense, Eugene, from joy most likely."
"Joy, indeed—and that letter she wrote after. Oh, no! she has taken it into her head that I am a villain, and—"
Mrs. de Burgh laughed.
"A villain," she repeated, "not quite so bad as that I hope, though not very good I am afraid. A villain! no, we must manage to get that idea at least out of the young lady's head."
"But how?" Eugene asked.
"Why, really, I don't know; let me see—I will write to her—though letters are not worth much. I wish, indeed, I could get her here away from her relations, who are all such terribly good people."
Eugene Trevor drew his chair eagerly forward.
"What here, do you really mean it—do you think it possible—that there would be any chance of her consenting to come?"
"I do not see why it should be impossible—at any rate we can try, and I flatter myself I am not a little clever about these sort of things. Oh, depend upon it, poor girl, she will only be too glad to be persuaded into loving you again. But then, Eugene, I must be sure that you really are in earnest—that the affair will be really brought to a decided issue, before I move again in the business. I burnt my fingers too severely with it before, and brought upon myself quite sufficient odium. What does Mary say in her letter? I must be quiteau faitin the business, you know, and understand what I am about."
"You shall know everything," said Eugene, approaching nearer, and subduing his tone to a confidential whisper. "It is a more complicated matter than you suppose. There is one very serious point to be dealt with: you will be surprised when you hear that it relates to my unlucky brother."
Mrs. de Burgh started, and looked a little uncomfortable.
"First of all," he added in still lower tones; "but," pausing suddenly, "will you be so good as to tell that young gentleman not to stare me out of countenance," alluding to his cousin's eldest boy, a delicate and serious-looking child, who sat on his mother's sofa, his intelligent eyes with earnest scrutiny rivetted upon Eugene's countenance, as he sat there with bent brow, and dark look of brooding care.
"Don't be rude, Charlie; go to the nursery," said his mother, half angry, half amused. "Why do you stare at cousin Eugene? do you not think he is very handsome?"
The boy coloured, but rising slowly, as if to escape an answer to the question, murmured evasively:
"Yes, I'll go up stairs, and look at my pictures about the dark-looking Cain thinking about his brother Abel."
"The strange child," said Mrs. de Burgh, with a little awkward laugh, for she knew the picture to which the child alluded, and was irresistibly struck by the similitude which it seems had suggested the comparison. A dark flush at the same time suffused the temples of her companion; but it had soon passed away. After a momentary pause, drawing near Mrs. de Burgh, and placing his chair a little behind her couch, with eyes bent still on the ground, Eugene resumed the subject thus interrupted. He spoke to her of his brother.
We will not detail the conversation, or how much, or in what manner he revealed or confided of that momentous theme. We must not compromise Mrs. de Burgh by supposing it possible she would have made herself privy to any known questionable transaction; suffice it to say, that it was dusk before Eugene Trevor rose to leave her, and that then the cousins parted most amicably.
Eugene promised to ride over very soon again; and when he had gone, Mrs. de Burgh after lying still meditating for a short time, aroused herself with the philosophical observation that this was a strange world—rang the bell for lights, which being brought, and her writing materials laid before her, she wrote as follows:
"My dearest Mary,"Eugene Trevor has just been here, wretched beyond description, to tell me you have broken off your engagement with him just as matters were beginning to take a favourable turn, and he could marry you to-morrow. I tell him he deserves this for having taxed your patience so long; but that, as you may imagine, gives him little comfort. But, Mary dear, I cannot believe you so very hard-hearted as to place so final an extinguisher on his hopes."He tells me you have listened to reports about him; one scandalous story in particular he mentioned, about his strange and unfortunate brother, in behalf of whom, some romantic adventures in Wales and abroad, gave you an interest unduly awarded. I say unduly—because, however fine and noble a creature Eustace Trevor may be by nature, it is not right that you should be unfaithful and unjust to Eugene through his cause. However, this is an affair which we cannot rightly dispose of in a letter; in one conversation I could put everything before you, dear, as clear as day."My dear Mary, come to Silverton; you owe it to Eugene—you owe it to yourself—you owe it to me, who first made you known to my cousin, not to refuse this request. I do not know where to direct this letter, I only know that you are somewhere in Wales, so send it to Plas Glyn, from whence it is certain to be forwarded to you. When I also tell you I am confined to my sofa by a terrible sprain which will keep me a prisoner, Heaven knows how long, you will suspect perhaps a little selfish feeling is mixed up with my solicitude for your visit; but no, indeed, I am too seriously anxious for your own happiness and Eugene's to have any such minor considerations, though a pleasure only too great would it be to me to have my dear Mary with me again."Louis will be at home by the time you arrive. I need not say how glad he will be to see you. Eugene shall not come here at all, if you do not like it—he need not even know of your arrival; he seldom comes to Silverton now. Alas, poor fellow! the recollections this place awakens can be but painful to him under present circumstances."Mary, Eugene may have some faults, but still I maintain that you might have made him what you wished, and that love so tried as his ought not to be thrown away, as you are about to do. Not many men, after being exposed to the temptations to which Eugene has been subjected, would still, after four years' almost constant separation, be so very urgent in the cause of marriage. But, dear Mary, even setting aside all this, what have you better to do than to come here with your faithful servant? You surely do not mean quite to desert Silverton and your cousins. I want you to see my children; the youngest is such a fine creature. I shall look forward to your answer with the greatest anxiety; you do not know how much may depend on acceding to the request of"Your affectionate"Olivia."
"My dearest Mary,
"Eugene Trevor has just been here, wretched beyond description, to tell me you have broken off your engagement with him just as matters were beginning to take a favourable turn, and he could marry you to-morrow. I tell him he deserves this for having taxed your patience so long; but that, as you may imagine, gives him little comfort. But, Mary dear, I cannot believe you so very hard-hearted as to place so final an extinguisher on his hopes.
"He tells me you have listened to reports about him; one scandalous story in particular he mentioned, about his strange and unfortunate brother, in behalf of whom, some romantic adventures in Wales and abroad, gave you an interest unduly awarded. I say unduly—because, however fine and noble a creature Eustace Trevor may be by nature, it is not right that you should be unfaithful and unjust to Eugene through his cause. However, this is an affair which we cannot rightly dispose of in a letter; in one conversation I could put everything before you, dear, as clear as day.
"My dear Mary, come to Silverton; you owe it to Eugene—you owe it to yourself—you owe it to me, who first made you known to my cousin, not to refuse this request. I do not know where to direct this letter, I only know that you are somewhere in Wales, so send it to Plas Glyn, from whence it is certain to be forwarded to you. When I also tell you I am confined to my sofa by a terrible sprain which will keep me a prisoner, Heaven knows how long, you will suspect perhaps a little selfish feeling is mixed up with my solicitude for your visit; but no, indeed, I am too seriously anxious for your own happiness and Eugene's to have any such minor considerations, though a pleasure only too great would it be to me to have my dear Mary with me again.
"Louis will be at home by the time you arrive. I need not say how glad he will be to see you. Eugene shall not come here at all, if you do not like it—he need not even know of your arrival; he seldom comes to Silverton now. Alas, poor fellow! the recollections this place awakens can be but painful to him under present circumstances.
"Mary, Eugene may have some faults, but still I maintain that you might have made him what you wished, and that love so tried as his ought not to be thrown away, as you are about to do. Not many men, after being exposed to the temptations to which Eugene has been subjected, would still, after four years' almost constant separation, be so very urgent in the cause of marriage. But, dear Mary, even setting aside all this, what have you better to do than to come here with your faithful servant? You surely do not mean quite to desert Silverton and your cousins. I want you to see my children; the youngest is such a fine creature. I shall look forward to your answer with the greatest anxiety; you do not know how much may depend on acceding to the request of
"Your affectionate"Olivia."
And this was the letter Mary at last received, after having, day after day, waited in sick and solitary suspense for any answer which she might have received from Eugene Trevor—solitary, for though her brother, as speedily as his professional engagements would permit, had followed her, a summons from Judge Elliott had quickly succeeded, offering the young man some very responsible legal appointment, which required his immediate presence in London. Of course there could be no question of demur. Mary urged her brother's immediate departure, over-ruling any scruples on his part at leaving her alone, and his earnest desire that at least she should accompany him to town.
No, she persuaded him that she should rather like the rest and quiet of the place in her present state of feeling; "besides, dear Arthur," she said with a melancholy smile, "it is necessary that I should begin to learn to accustom myself to a solitary life."
"I do not at all see that, Mary," Arthur answered almost angrily—"why your's should ever be solitary."
"No indeed," was the affectionate reply; "I know that can never be, with such a brother, and," with a playful smile, "such a sister as I hope soon to have."
"Mary, you have become very anxious to dispose of your brother."
"Yes, certainly I am, to such advantage;" then with gaiety which shot a ray of gladsome pleasure from the young man's bright eyes, she added: "besides, I am as much in love with Carrie as yourself; and she and I are sure to get on well together."
So Mary was left alone, supposed at least to be calmly happy, when alas, poor girl! to such a desirable condition she was as yet very far from having arrived. No, there was as yet too much of suspense and uncertainty still gnawing within her soul.
It is not all at once, without a struggle, and one backward longing look, that we can resign ourselves to the certainty that the hope and trust on which we had flung our all, has proved a lie. There were two letters yet to come ere she could let the black curtain fall over the past for ever.
Alone too, with a dreamy impression stealing over her, that whatever her brother's affection might maintain, this loneliness was a foretaste of her future life. And then the bitter sigh and yearning void, as the thought flew back to visions all too brightly wrought, now for ever flown.
Her faithful servant, who marked her dear young lady's spirits sink lower and lower every day, sighed too over her disappointed expectations, for she thought "it would have been better for Miss Mary to have married Mr. Trevor—even if he were somewhat of a wild gentleman, as they said he was: she is so like an angel that she could tame a lion. So good and tender a heart as hers, was never made to live alone with no one to love her, and to love—and my heart misgives me," added the affectionate servant. "She will never get over the affair. And Mr. Arthur too, he is getting too great a man to have much time to give to her—and there's his heart too, quite gone they say after Miss Elliott, who is as much taken with him I fancy; and after all he is but a brother, and the best of them are not so sure and comfortable like as a husband. But after all," the good woman continued to soliloquize, "a bad character will not certainly do for my young lady, and there's something wrong in the Trevors they say. Who would have thought it, and my Miss Mary loving Mr. Eugene as she did; but she is so good and innocent-hearted herself! At any rate, she must not stay moping here much longer. I can see she's getting quite low and nervous."
These were good Mrs. Hughes' thoughts and reflections on the subject, and it was no inconsiderable satisfaction to her mind, when Mary came to her one morning with a letter in her hand, informing her, that she had received an invitation from Silverton, which she intended to accept, and begged her to prepare without delay for the journey; after which Mary sat down and wrote to Mrs. de Burgh, and also the following announcement to her brother:
"Dearest Arthur,"You will be surprised—perhaps not well pleased—to hear that I am going to set off to-morrow for Silverton. I have had a pressing letter from Olivia de Burgh; and there are many things that I must have explained by Louis and herself, before I feel that I can with a mind contented and at ease settle down (I do not speak ironically, but with the calm assurance that there will be much of blessedness in store for me) in that estate—a life of single blessedness—which now lies before me."Do not then suspect me of weak and wavering motives in the step I am going to take. Believe me when I say, that it is not my intention even to see Eugene. Olivia has promised that I should not meet him unless I desire it; and what could our meeting cause, but pain and discomfort to us both? No, I can no longer fight against the conviction which time and my more experienced perception has forced upon me, that Eugene Trevor is not what my blind affection so long firmly believed him."God knows my love was not of an evanescent nature; and irresistible indeed must be the causes which have so undermined it. But still my heart shrinks from doing an act of injustice, by condemning him more than he deserves; and there is one horrible suspicion with which my mind has been distracted, my heart can never rest till it has been more clearly enlightened."Oh, Arthur! it is a dark and terrible story, I cannot enter upon it now. Suffice it that, if true, it must cast a shadow on my latest hour of existence. If you knew how it has—how it still preys upon my imagination, even till I sometimes fear the bewildering influence it may produce upon my senses, you would not now blame the impulse which leads me to prefer even the risk of obtaining this fearful certainty—rather than continue groping in darkness—for to such I may compare the condition under which I have for some time laboured. But Olivia has promised that my mind shall be relieved, and Louis, I know, will tell me the truth. May God give me strength and fortitude to bear it."I shall not wish to remain at Silverton longer than is absolutely necessary; if therefore your business will permit you to join me there, I can travel with you back into Wales where the Morgans will by that time have returned, and I can stay with them as they wish, till our plans and prospects, dear Arthur, are more finally arranged."
"Dearest Arthur,
"You will be surprised—perhaps not well pleased—to hear that I am going to set off to-morrow for Silverton. I have had a pressing letter from Olivia de Burgh; and there are many things that I must have explained by Louis and herself, before I feel that I can with a mind contented and at ease settle down (I do not speak ironically, but with the calm assurance that there will be much of blessedness in store for me) in that estate—a life of single blessedness—which now lies before me.
"Do not then suspect me of weak and wavering motives in the step I am going to take. Believe me when I say, that it is not my intention even to see Eugene. Olivia has promised that I should not meet him unless I desire it; and what could our meeting cause, but pain and discomfort to us both? No, I can no longer fight against the conviction which time and my more experienced perception has forced upon me, that Eugene Trevor is not what my blind affection so long firmly believed him.
"God knows my love was not of an evanescent nature; and irresistible indeed must be the causes which have so undermined it. But still my heart shrinks from doing an act of injustice, by condemning him more than he deserves; and there is one horrible suspicion with which my mind has been distracted, my heart can never rest till it has been more clearly enlightened.
"Oh, Arthur! it is a dark and terrible story, I cannot enter upon it now. Suffice it that, if true, it must cast a shadow on my latest hour of existence. If you knew how it has—how it still preys upon my imagination, even till I sometimes fear the bewildering influence it may produce upon my senses, you would not now blame the impulse which leads me to prefer even the risk of obtaining this fearful certainty—rather than continue groping in darkness—for to such I may compare the condition under which I have for some time laboured. But Olivia has promised that my mind shall be relieved, and Louis, I know, will tell me the truth. May God give me strength and fortitude to bear it.
"I shall not wish to remain at Silverton longer than is absolutely necessary; if therefore your business will permit you to join me there, I can travel with you back into Wales where the Morgans will by that time have returned, and I can stay with them as they wish, till our plans and prospects, dear Arthur, are more finally arranged."