Mary Seaham Volume Iii Part 8

"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 n.o.ble 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 am _sure_ you 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 you _can_, you _will_ speak 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 rect.i.tude 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, n.o.ble 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 a.s.sistance 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 friends.h.i.+ps, its smiles, its Judas kisses, awaiting not alone the eagle but the dove--the holy, harmless, and undefiled? And _now_ do 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sions, 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--never _dare_ even 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 a.s.sumed the semblance, she should be most ready to lean her weary head on the n.o.ble 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 G.o.d. 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 see _him_, Eugene Trevor again; then show it to him from _me_--from Edward Temple. Tell him the circ.u.mstances 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 marble _sala_, 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.

CHAPTER VII.

Bear up, Yet still bear up. No bark did e'er, By stooping to the storm of fear, Escape the tempest's wrath.

BEAUMONT.

He doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow.

WITHERS.

It was the eve of the opening a.s.size day, and even in the quiet little town of ---- might be observed that aspect of bustle and excitement generally prevailing on such occasions.

In a private apartment of the hotel honoured by the presence of the judge himself, sat a young man bending with the intensest interest and attention over the books and papers which lay upon the table before him.

It was Arthur Seaham, whose brave and strenuous exertions had been crowned with honourable success. He had been called to the bar, and was about to start forward with hopeful confidence on his new career, it being his first case with which we find him so zealously engaged.

Happy young man! Many might have envied you at that moment. Young in heart, sanguine and resolute in spirit, with every good and honourable motive to urge you on to exertion--a life of action and reality is before you.

"Life that shall send a challenge to the end, And when it comes, say--Welcome, friend!"

"_L'action avec un but_"--the auspicious banner under which you launch forth upon your new career.

For some hours the young barrister continued unremitting at his task, and would perhaps have remained so many more, had not another voice than that which had probably during this time been sounding in his ears--suddenly broke the spell, and flushed his cheek--kindled his eye with a very different inspiration to that which had previously illumined it.