Mary Seaham Volume Iii Part 14

Jane Marryott looked pained and embarra.s.sed, and hesitated how to reply.

"Do not fear to speak out plainly," faltered Mary, turning away her head; "anything is better than the uncertainty and vague insinuations with which I have been hitherto tortured."

"Then, Miss Seaham," Jane Marryott answered, sorrowfully, "if I speak plainly as you desire, I am forced to confess that all that I have heard of Mr. Eugene Trevor, makes me fear his being too like his father in disposition to make any lady happy."

"Mr. Eugene Trevor cannot possibly be like his father," murmured Mary, her woman's faithfulness still rising up in her lover's defence.

"G.o.d grant that it may not be so in every respect," resumed the other.

"But, alas! it is written 'that the love of money is the root of all evil;' and what but the coveting of his father's riches, though it might be for a different purpose than the old gentleman's avariciousness--I mean the spending it on his own selfish pleasures--could have made him act in many respects as I have heard that he has done; though G.o.d forgive me for exposing the faults of a fellow-creature."

"Speak on, I entreat," Mary anxiously exclaimed.

"Well, Miss, I mean why did he not stand up, like his brother, for his injured, excellent mother; and if he did not exactly join hand in hand with those who oppressed her, why countenance her wrongs by their contented endurance? then about Mr. Eustace that true and n.o.ble-hearted gentleman?"

"Ah! what of him?" Mary eagerly inquired, lifting up her sadly-drooping eyes, and fixing them upon Jane Marryott's face with an earnest, fearful expression.

"He was treated shamefully by his father from a child," was the reply; "but I fear more badly still at last by his brother, if, indeed, it be true that he had any hand in the dark business, in which I am told he was mixed up."

"What business?" inquired Mary, turning very pale.

"It is almost too dreadful a story to repeat--almost to believe; but as I have mentioned the subject, and you, Madam, have made me to understand that you were not without unpleasant suspicions as to its truth, I will tell you what I was informed about the matter. The fact is, that an old servant at Montrevor, who had been much attached to Mrs. Trevor and Mr.

Eustace, and who happened to be a native of the town in which I lived, came to the place, and finding me out, visited me for the purpose, I believe, of venting the bitterness of his soul against my unfortunate mother, who he spoke of as the cause of all the sorrow which happened to those he loved; but when he saw me ashamed and grieved equally with himself, then he opened his heart more gently to me, and told me all about the present subject of his distress, and what had induced him to leave Montrevor, swearing never again to set his foot in it, as long as either Mr. Trevor, his son Eugene, or my mother, darkened its doors. He told me Mr. Eustace Trevor had been attacked by a brain fever, brought on by the shock of his mother's death, such as he had had once before after hard study, when Matthew had himself attended on his young master, who was delirious for some days and nights; but that this last time, neither he, nor any of the servants, were allowed to go near his chamber; and that at last he had been carried away at night to a madhouse, it being reported through the house that he was out of his mind. Matthew went once or twice to the door of the establishment, to request to see his master, but was refused admittance. A week or two after, however, Mr. Eustace came back to Montrevor, and went to the library, where his father, brother, my mother, and a lawyer were a.s.sembled, making up papers to deprive him of his property. None of the servants saw him but Matthew, who was told to hold himself in readiness to a.s.sist his master, if any attempt was made upon his liberty. This, however, was not the case; he left the house as he came, in half an hour's time. Matthew followed him, and was sent back a few stages off, to bring his master's things away from Montrevor, chiefly for the sake of his mother's picture, which was amongst them. Then he gave Matthew some money, and finally but firmly commanded him to leave him. He said that he was going to quit the country, never to return; wished to retain no one, as that might lead to his discovery, entreating him, if he really loved him, to acquiesce in his wishes. He looked ill, and much reduced, of course, by all that he had gone through, both in body and mind. His beautiful hair had been shorn, and with a smile that went through Matthew's heart like a dagger, he uncovered his wrists, and showed deep marks of manacles that they had put upon him indented there.

But he said: 'Matthew, I was never mad; it was only another attack, such as you, good old fellow, nursed me through some time ago; but never mind, there are worse things than the charge of madness to suffer in this world. I am going to leave the country, and my unnatural enemies behind me; and if you wish to serve me faithfully, as you hitherto have done, do not try to follow me or to find me out.' And then when Matthew continued to entreat, he grew firmer still, and told him if ever he found himself importuned by pursuit, either by friend or by foe, or the story of what had happened had got spread abroad, he should suspect him of being the cause. So Matthew was fain, with many tears, to bid him farewell; and very soon after it was that Matthew came to me. But I have shocked and distressed you, dear young lady," Jane Marryott added, observing the look of horror which deepened on Mary's countenance, as she with blanched cheeks and distended eyes listened to the recital. "I have never breathed all this to other mortal ear, and should not to you, had not your questioning drawn me to speak out what I fancied you to have already conjectured. Nay, they say that many of Mr. Eustace's friends were inclined to look suspiciously on the matter; but earthly friends, for the most part, are cold and lax in the behalf of those out of sight."

"And was nothing more heard by Matthew of his master?" Mary faintly inquired.

"Yes, early in spring, Matthew, to his joyful surprise, received a letter from Mr. Eustace, telling him to go to Oxford, and to remove some of the property he had at that place to London, where it was received by a strange clerical gentleman, and taken away he knew not whither. But it was a consolation to Matthew to know, at least, and be a.s.sured by the gentleman, that his master was safe and well, although still trusting to his obedience and his silence. I have never since heard or seen anything of Mr. Matthew, for he left to settle in London. I have often thought upon the strange story, and wondered whether anything more had ever been heard of Mr. Eustace."

Jane Marryott ceased; and for an instant Mary sat with clasped hands, and a stunned expression in her countenance, till at length meeting the gaze of her companion fixed upon her, with a look of regretful concern; she held out her hand and with a wan smile, such as wherewith a patient might express his thanks at the performer of some painful but necessary operation, thanked her again for having satisfied her painful curiosity; sweetly--yet with an expression which much belied the a.s.sertion--a.s.suring Jane Marryott when she expressed her fears as to the effect upon her mind this communication had produced--that though pain of course such a relation could not fail to cause her--yet it was not more than she had endured of late, nor more for her to listen than some points of her communication must have been to her, Jane Marryott, to reveal; for even in the absorption of her own feelings, Mary had not failed to mark and to compa.s.sionate the look of humbled shame and sorrow, which bowed down the daughter's head in those parts of her relation bearing allusion to her mother, whilst at the same time the honest simplicity of her cla.s.s and character, had forced her to pa.s.s through the ordeal without compromise or circ.u.mlocution; and thus from the lips of the stranger of yesterday, there had been revealed in a manner calculated to strike entire conviction upon the mind of the listener, every circ.u.mstance which before had been concealed by a dark cloud of mystery--or that the tender consideration of friends had dealt out to her, in the vile daily drop of vague insinuation and report.

Stupified and still, she sat for some time after Jane Marryott had taken her departure. Mary having said something at parting about seeing her on the morrow, as Jane Marryott did not leave for Liverpool, the place of her intended embarkation, till she had received the final tidings of her mother's fate; promised to her by Eugene Trevor.

But the interview did not take place. Mary sent her a useful present, but was too unwell to see her when she called.

CHAPTER XIV.

As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes that keep this breast Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.

MOORE.

We left Mary yielding herself to the pa.s.sive 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 rather _was_ there 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 compa.s.sion 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 ident.i.ty 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 circ.u.mstances 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 acc.u.mulated 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 (n.o.ble and generous in their origin as they were) which hitherto actuated his conduct, and to return to England--to the world--rea.s.sert 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."