Mary Seaham Volume Iii Part 5

"Nor did I say anything of the sort. _I_ am not at all in the custom of a.s.serting 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.

CHAPTER IV.

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

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 fidelity Its 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.surance. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt; 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 cla.s.sic 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.

CHAPTER V.

We came to Italy. I felt A yearning for its sunny sky; My very spirit seem'd to melt As 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 pa.s.sionate 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 ma.s.sive 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 not _from_ her 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.