And so, beloved one--life's all--farewell!
Still by my hearth thy gentle shade shall dwell,
Still shall my soul, where night the dreariest seem,
Fly back to thee, O soft--O vanish'd dream!
THE NEW TIMON.
What indeed had Mary heard--what did she understand?
Mr. Temple the great, the excellent--he who for the many years he had
made that retired neighbourhood his abode, had shone with such bright
and exalted lustre among his little circle of acquaintances, inspiring
in the minds of all, especially of those best able to appreciate his
superiority, the family of Glan Pennant--admiring regard almost
approaching to veneration, who to their eyes appeared more to approach
in character as far as mortal may without impiety be said to approach,
to that Great Being--Him who made himself of no reputation, stooped from
his high estate--humbled himself for the sake of the poor and ignorant
of mankind--was it he who thus addressed her?
From what could be gleaned gradually from his discourse, by those with
whom he became most intimately associated, a man of high family and
connections, he had come unknown and lonely, like one dropped suddenly
from some higher sphere, divested of all proud pretensions, to act as a
voluntary and unostentatious minister to the wants and necessities both
temporal and spiritual of the poor and needy, whilst at the same time
affecting no misanthropic and reclusive habits, though a certain
impenetrable mystery ever hung over his former history, he did not
shrink from mixing in social intercourse with the very few families of
which the retired neighbourhood could boast, and more particularly with
the inmates of Glan Pennant; becoming a zealous assistant in all the
charitable pursuits and interests in which the young sisters of the
house had engaged with such active and untiring interest, as long as
they remain unmarried.
Mary Seaham, perhaps, had been the one whose character and pursuits had
thrown her less than any of the family in the way of similar
association, and therefore might have been the least prepared to find
she had made so strong an impression on Mr. Temple's feelings, as his
present discourse discovered her to have done. But it was not so much
surprise, nor on the other hand, was it so much an overwhelming sense of
the honour done her by such distinction, as a feeling almost approaching
to self-disgust--shame; which for some moments kept her silently rooted
to the spot with that expression of countenance, her trembling lover
had interpreted as cold astonishment, excited by his proposal.
Ashamed and sorrowful she felt, as one might be to whom some guardian
angel--some higher spirit from another sphere--had stooped to offer
himself as guide and guardian through this earthly pilgrimage, and she
the favoured mortal had turned away, despising the blessed boon thus
proffered, saying:
"I will go forth and try whether I cannot walk amidst the dangerous
paths alone, or find at least some other Lord to have dominion over me."
Or, as the self convicted Israelite, who seeing the heavenly manna
scattered round his path, felt his heart still turn away, after the
flesh pots of Egypt.
This we mean to say was the light in which Mary was inclined to view her
feelings on this occasion. No one else, perhaps, would have judged them
so harshly, seeing in the first place, that the very exalted
superiority which in her own eyes made her heart's rejection of Mr.
Temple's suit, a reflection on her taste and feelings, would in the
opinion of others have rendered it but the more excusable; whilst in the
estimation of those possessed of less pure and simple enthusiasm than
the lady of his love, the possibility of such high strained excellence
existing in the life and character of a man of mortal mould, might have
been strongly doubted.
But as it was, Mary Seaham now with downcast eyes and faltering tongue,
gave answer when to answer she was able, in such sort as might have
suited more an ashamed and humble penitent, confessing to a superior
being a sin or an infirmity, than a woman free to choose or to reject,
yielding her gentle death blow to a trembling lover's hopes.
"Mr. Temple, how humbling to my feelings is the opinion you must have so
flatteringly formed of me, ere you could have addressed me thus; an
opinion, alas! how little accordant with reality. I fear, if you read my
mind, my character aright, you would start aside at the unexpected fact
of discovering worldly tastes and feelings, lying hidden there, dormant
only, perhaps, from want of time and opportunity for bringing them
forth. What, for instance, would you say, were I to acknowledge that it
is not so much the world--in the sense you have described it, with which
I am desirous of becoming acquainted, as that very world which you, in
your well grounded experience, so much contemn. I mean," she added the
colour tinging her cheek, "I mean its society."
"Society!" Mr. Temple repeated, looking down upon her with a sad, but
mild and tender expression; "alas! can it indeed be so? your pure hopes
and aspirations, do they really tend in that direction?"
"I had always fancied," she pursued apologetically, "that much of good
and beautiful--much worthy of interest and admiration, might be met
with in that last great work of the Almighty; and I may be said to have
comparatively seen as little of that branch of the creation in its
varied characters as of any other," she added with a smile.
"And you go forth," he responded, in the same tone and manner as before,
"with your unsophisticated imaginings--your poetic fancy--prepared to
find this so called society peopled with the beings you have pictured in
your dreams?"
"No, no! not quite that," she rejoined with returning animation; "but,
Mr. Temple, do you really consider the whole circle of society
individually as well as collectively, in so dark a light? Are there no
flowers amongst the thorns--no wheat among the tares?"
"Yes truly," he responded with a still more sorrowful and earnest
interest, as he marked the glowing cheek and unwonted excitement of the
loved enquirer; "but the tares unhappily in that cursed ground--cursed
for man's guilty sake!--too much preponderate, and those springing up,
choke the wheat till even _they_ become unfruitful. But, oh, Miss
Seaham! am I answered now? The words, the acknowledgement you have just
made are they the vehicles you have chosen, by which to convey your
final rejection of that which I have dared to proffer, for if not, here
is a hand and heart as ready and willing--if possible ten times more
eager--to be allowed to guide and guard you through those dangerous
paths you desire to tread. Think not that I will shrink from turning
back even to that world I have so condemned; if it be to walk by your
side--to protect--to guide--to guard you there. Yes," he murmured to
himself, whilst some strong emotion evidently struggled for mastery, as
the idea suggested itself to his imagination, and again his cheek became
deadly pale. "For her sweet sake--with such an angel by my side--what
could I not brave, what could I not encounter? Even thou, mine enemy!
thou and thine insidious unnatural machinations!"
Then recollecting himself, Mr. Temple turned in some alarm, lest his
half muttered soliloquy might have created unpleasant surprise in the
mind of her he was so anxious to propitiate. But his fear was
groundless. Mary Seaham, too much engrossed by the more apparent subject
of his discourse, so completely absorbing her attention, heeded not the
mysterious tendency of these latter words, and when recollecting
himself, he again paused in breathless enquiry; she could only shake her
head, and with averted face and downcast eyes, sorrowfully confess her
unworthiness, and her rejection of such distinguished favour as had been
shown her by his offer. Then in other words more clear and explicit, she
faltered forth sentences which tended slowly and sadly to convey with
certainty to Mr. Temple's mind--and what to him were the others
feelings, bowing down the young girl's heart before him as before a
superior being--that the one feeling he required was wanting there--the
love which alone could crown his hopes--induce her to become his wife.
A dreary pause ensued. It might have seemed that even nature sympathized
in the disappointment of one human heart, so hushed and still was all
around.
The silence was broken by Mr. Temple. His voice had recovered the wonted
calm of its low, deep accents as thus he spoke:
"And in this world of imagination--this dream-land sphere which you own,
alas! to have been no coral strands or balmy groves of the natural
world, but the glittering shores, the giddy mazes of society--there
wherein you have long in fancy loved to wander, and now in the might of
your innocence and purity of heart, so confidently and gladly haste to
enter and prove their reality. Tell me, amongst all the features of your
glowing picture, has your mind formed for itself hopes and aspirations,
which have in any degree stood in the way of those which I had dared to
entertain? Have your dreams carried you thus far, or do you go into the
world, with--at least on this one point, your heart and feelings, I
should rather say--your fancy, disengaged?"
He did not speak as if in mockery and disdain to a weak and romantic
girl, but with the serious delicate kindness of one whose very skill and
knowledge in diving amongst the fantastic images of the human heart, is
all the less moved to scorn or derision at the conception of its hidden
enormities.
Mary Seaham started. The crimson blood suffused her pure pale cheek. She
shrank from the enquiring scrutiny of that dark eye bent down upon her,
as if she felt that it had power to draw forth into light and substance
every indistinct shadow, each vague imagination which had ever floated
across her mind, a power too, which it was not possible by commonplace
subterfuge to evade. Something also in that dark eye strangely affected
her at that moment; the impression it produced, connecting itself in an
indescribable manner, with the very dream and fancy, Mr. Temple's
searching words had stirred up within her conscience.
But the sense and spirit of her soul's pure innocence soon came to Mary
Seaham's relief. She shook off the morbid consciousness, and with
ingenuous courage, turning with bright open face to her inquirer,
replied:
"That I have had many a foolish dream, Mr. Temple, connected with the
world of my imagination, I will not attempt to deny, but to the dignity
of hopes and aspirations, I assure you, they have never yet
arrived--never attained to such weight and importance in my mind, as
would lead me to the folly or madness of allowing them to interfere with
the substantial good--the real blessing which have this evening been
laid before my unworthy acceptance, and which--"
"Enough!" interrupted Mr. Temple, as if to save himself, and her, the
pain of further explanation as to the motives which had forbidden the
acceptance of those acknowledged blessings.
"Enough dear Miss Seaham. Dream on, and never may you wake from the pure
and blameless dreams, which, whatever be their nature, can alone have
taken rise in such a soul. Never may you awake from these to dark
sorrowful reality. But should you so awake, and find those dreams
dispersed, and Providence should again place us in each other's paths,
remember.... But alas!" he broke off abruptly, "of what avail such
imaginings? May God preserve you in this evil world! is all that remains
for me to pray."
He wrung her hand in strong emotion, and when Mary Seaham raised her
tearful eyes to thank him for his fervent vow, Mr. Temple had turned
away, his tall form was already to be seen slowly disappearing across
the darkening common--and this long and singular interview was at an
end.
Mary in her turn hurried home, and all that had passed seemed to her
recollection but as a bewildering dream, when she found herself once
more in the quiet library, officiating for the last time at the tea
table, which with the hissing urn, she found standing ready awaiting her
return.