They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one house with glee,
Their _homes_ are severed far and wide,
By mount and stream and sea.
HEMANS.
Pure girl! thy tender presence
Has an unconscious ministry to me,
And near thee, in the night that shrouds me still,
My darkness is forgotten.
WILLIS.
The good old couple, awakened from their refreshing slumber, had already
sent a servant in search of their missing niece, wondering a little what
could keep her out so late upon this last night at Glan Pennant, after
a day of such fatigue, and the eve of her long journey.
But Mary told them that she had been detained talking to Mr. Temple,
whom she had met upon the hill, and they were glad that she had seen
him, little devising all that parting interview had comprised, or they
might not have been quite so well satisfied with the part their niece
had taken therein. For it being their chief anxiety to see this last
remaining niece well settled in life, now that the critical and
uncertain circumstances of the family affairs rendered some secure
provision so desirable, and their matter of fact perceptions leading
them to regard Mr. Temple in the light of a very exemplary clergyman, of
comfortable means--and judging from his gentlemanly carriage and
superior conversation, more than from his own profession, or other
guarantee--of good family and birth; they had often thought, and even
ventured to express in words to each other, what a good husband he
would make for their quiet Mary, whose tastes and qualities--judging
from the same simple-minded rule of observation, which never saw ought
beyond the surface of appearance or boundary of circumstances--the good
old couple interpreted, were exactly those befitting her for the
vocation to be thereby entailed upon her, namely, that of clergyman's
wife, an inference which we have seen from our heroine's own confessions
that evening, to have been by no means correctly drawn.
Mary Seaham's four sisters had been severally disposed of in marriage,
since by the death of their father, the charge of the orphan daughters
had devolved upon them. The eldest in every way--as the eldest daughter
of a family is often seen to do--most to the entire approval and
satisfaction of her friends.
The superior advantages of a girl's introduction into the world, under
the care and superintendence of sensible and estimable parents, had
distinguished her opening career above those of her other sisters, and
she had been engaged before her father's death to Lord Everingham--whom
she subsequently married--a nobleman of high worth and distinction, at
this time holding a considerable post in India.
Alice, the second daughter, a few years after, became the wife of Mr.
Gillespie, a Scotch lawyer, with whom she had become acquainted whilst
visiting some friends in Scotland, and he being a widower, with children
already provided for her care, to whose number she had duly added, her's
had proved no sinecure undertaking. But laudably had she fulfilled the
destiny appointed her, devoting herself in her still youthful years
without a murmur or backward look of regret to the life of comparative
drudgery which this choice of a husband had entailed upon her--a course
of life to which sneerers may be ready to apply the slighting axiom of
Iago,
"To suckle fools and chronicle small beer;"
but which nevertheless, when thus accomplished, may be accounted one of
the most honourable a woman can fulfil, the one perhaps best meriting
that commendation which the faithful workers in this world's vineyard
shall receive at the last day. "Well done, thou good and faithful
servant," &c., and though some might have fancied, at the time that
Alice Seaham, with her refined tastes, and somewhat superior
qualifications, was entering on a vocation she was ill fitted to
sustain, either with pleasure or profit to herself or others, it
surprised them to find how little these characteristics stood in the way
of her usefulness, capability, or perfect contentment in the part she
was called upon to act on this life's theatre--that part which devolves
on the wife of a professional man, with an increasing family, and
limited income. How far more usefully and happily employed for herself
and others were those refined tastes, and those superior qualifications,
though thus adapted, like the beautiful plants and products of the
foreign climes, to the common uses and necessities of mankind, than if
suffered to expand and expend themselves upon the leafless desert, in
selfish, listless, idle inefficiency, often preying morbidly on their
own resources for lack of legitimate exercise or healthful outlet--those
very tastes and qualifications, proving oftener a curse and a reproach,
than a blessing and an ornament to their possessor. For woman's strength
and honour lie in her heart, in her affections, in the duties which from
them devolve; if she lean upon her own understanding, trusts to the
resources of her mind, or intellect, she leans on a broken reed, she
makes for herself broken cisterns which can hold no water.
* * * * *
Selina Seaham, the third daughter, and the beauty of the family, only
one year before the marriage celebrated on the day in question,
consulted the inclinations of her own heart, rather than the prudent
wishes of her friends, and gave her hand to an officer, who had
immediately after left England to join his regiment in India with his
bride; and then the two younger sisters had remained together at Glan
Pennant without any seeming prospect of such speedy disseverment as had
since occurred, till some months after, Sir Hugh Morgan, the great man
of those parts, to the astonishment of all, proposed to the youngest
Miss Seaham and was accepted; he being her senior by some
five-and-twenty years. And though he had ever been on very intimate and
friendly terms with the family, had not shown any tendency that way
since the time, when, on the Seahams first coming to settle in the
neighbourhood, after their father's death--Mr. Seaham having absented
himself from Glan Pennant for some years, for the education of his
daughters--Sir Hugh Morgan made an offer of his hand to the eldest
daughter, and finding himself at fault, she being engaged at the very
time to Lord Everingham, oddly overlooked the precedence of the genius
and the beauty amongst the sisters, and transferred his offer of a place
in his hard-named pedigree to the startled Mary, then a girl of scarcely
seventeen. But though a man of much honest worth, not to speak of the
worldly recommendations of the match, the proposal produced no effect
upon the mind of the unambitious maiden, but surprise and repugnance.
"And she refused him, though her aunt did say,
'Twas an advantage she had thrown away.
(He an advantage!) That she'd live to rue it."
Whether or not, she had reason for repentance on this score, may cause,
amongst those who follow her future history a difference of opinion.
But certain it is, that with not a pang of envious regret on her own
account, had she seen her young and blooming sister, Agnes, give her
hand that morning, five years after the event of her refusal to the same
excellent man, the only disagreeable feeling the occasion excited in her
mind being, the difficulty of reconciling herself to the idea, that her
dear, pretty, young sister Aggy, should so cheerfully acquiesce in a
fate which had once raised in her own mind such unqualified
disinclination.
But then she was the only individual in the world, who did not think the
fair bride the luckiest creature in the world, and the wisest.
"Who but a fool like me, they think, no doubt," mused Mary Seaham, with
a humble sigh, "would have rejected such an advantage as they seem to
consider it. True, I was only seventeen at the time, but am I wiser at
twenty-one? to-night's experience has well shown forth." And she
remembered a certain fable which had composed a portion of her
childhood's lessons, 'The dog and the shadow,' and smiled in very scorn
and derision at her own puerility.
But alas! there are shadows which our wild and wilful imaginations have
conjured up which, scorn and deride them as we may, are destined to cast
a darkening influence on our future destinies.
"Our fatal shadows that walk by us still;"
to become, in fact, a substance--a reality--from which we would often
fain be able to awake and say: it was a dream.
"Grant us not the ill we ask--in very love refuse--
That which we know, our weakness would abuse."
But it is as well, perhaps, to retrograde, in order to relate the
incident which some years ago had cast its beguiling shadows upon the
pure stream of our heroine's young existence. She was scarcely sixteen,
when, under the _chaperonage_ of her sister, Lady Everingham, then a
bride, she had found herself at the summer fête, given by the father of
her cousin, Mr. de Burgh's beautiful betrothed. Lady Everingham was
taken ill soon after her arrival, and returned home with her husband,
leaving her young sister under the nominal care of her cousin, Louis de
Burgh, and his _fiancée_ (the queen of that day's revels), who had, with
the most eager kindness, taken upon themselves the charge, but as may be
naturally supposed were but far too much better employed to carry out
their good intentions, so that Mary, having for some little time kept
near them, feeling very greatly _de trop_, being at length divided for
an instant from their side, saw the lovers, when next in view, disappear
together within the shade of a _bosquet_, and she left alone amidst
these few strangers, and indifferent friends, who happened to be near
the spot.
Her youth and timidity made this situation of itself one of sufficient
embarrassment to her feelings, there being none with whom she felt such
a degree of intimacy or acquaintance as gave her courage to claim their
protection or companionship, but when these even began to drop off by
degrees from the parterre, wherein a portion of the company had
assembled, and the last lady had eventually departed without her having
the courage to follow in her train, poor Mary's distress was at its
climax. Only a group, composed of several gentlemen, with not one of
whom she was in any way acquainted, remained behind.
The solitary position in which she found herself, causing her to become
a conspicuous object, the timid, though not awkward embarrassment of the
young girl as she stood irresolute, whether to remain or to retire,
attracted the attention of the party. They all looked at her, one or two
exchanged smiles which poor Mary, was very quick to interpret into those
of amusement and derision; and crimsoning to the temples, she was
preparing to glide away in desperate search of her cousin, when out of
that very group from whose fancied satire she was so anxious to escape,
a gentleman stepped forward and politely addressed her.
He was afraid that she had lost her friends; could he in any way assist
her? She thanked him, and hesitatingly murmured the names of her cousin
and his bride elect. But this seemed sufficient explanation to the
gentleman, with regard to the situation to which he found the young lady
exposed. He smiled good-naturedly--feared she must not find fault with
any deficiency in _their chaperonage_ just now; and begged her to accept
his arm, and avail herself of his escort until she could be restored to
the runaways. The speaker was young and handsome. Mary Seaham looked up
gratefully into the dark eyes bent down so kindly upon her. The tone in
which he mentioned her cousin seemed to denote that an intimacy existed
between them. But setting aside these considerations, there was no
prudery in that young and innocent heart. She placed her arm within that
of the stranger's with the _naïve_ and simple confidence of a child, and
suffered him to lead her away from the scene of her discomfiture.
Neither did he seem in any hurry to relieve himself of the charge he had
undertaken, for though he met and spoke to many lady friends, to whose
care he might, had he desired it, have committed Mary, he did not avail
himself of the opportunity but still continued to conduct her here and
there--finding she was a stranger to the beautiful domain--to every spot
considered worthy of interest and admiration, seeming himself pleased,
and interested by the gentle intelligent delight, with which his young
companion--now that she was happy and at ease--entered into the spirit
of everything around her; her first shyness wearing away, and her
innocent re-assurance, being still more effectually established after
an encounter with her cousin and his intended. The enamoured pair,
reminded, for the first time of the charge they had neglected, by the
sight of Mary, if they looked a little surprised at first, to see her
thus accompanied, were evidently relieved by finding her in any way
happily disposed of; and when playfully attacked by her protector for
having so unfaithfully fulfilled their office to his fair charge, they
answered in the same tone that Miss Seaham could not have found a better
_chaperon_ than her present companion. And then the handsome lovers, a
more graceful pair at that time could not have been found, gaily kissed
their hands, and pursued their flowery path--a path in which there
surely seemed as yet to lurk no thorn.
"It was the time of roses,
They plucked them as they passed."
Thus again, left standing alone together, Mary's companion looked at her
and smiled. Mary too smiled, but she blushed also and said: "You see
they will not take me off your hands; pray do not let me be in your way,
but take me to some lady of your acquaintance, who will doubtless let me
stay by her side."
"Not for the world!" was the earnest rejoinder, "at least if you are not
tired of my society. Dinner--to which you must allow me the pleasure of
conducting you--must," he added, looking at his watch, "soon be ready;
till then, let me show you the aviary."
And again he offered his arm, and led her in that direction. After
which, as she owned at last to feeling a little tired, they seated
themselves in the pavilion, where others of the company were assembled,
awaiting the banquet to be given in the house. There was one peculiarity
about her companion which impressed Mary at the time.
Though animated and lively in his manner and discourse when he did
speak, his words were not many, whilst on the contrary the earnest,
thoughtful interest with which he seemed to listen to every sentence
proceeding from her mouth, trivial and simple as she considered them
herself to be, at the same time as it encouraged and irresistibly
flattered her modest pride, made her, nevertheless, wonder, and once or
twice look up inquiringly into the dark eyes bent down so earnestly upon
her face, as she gave utterance to any opinion or remark, as if to
discover from what reason this might proceed.
She could not tell what attraction there often is in the simple-minded,
guileless nature of a youthful being like herself, to the man plunged in
the cares and passions of maturer years, and though Eugene Trevor, at
that time was young--not more than five and twenty--a more experienced
eye than Mary's might have discerned, _that_ stamped upon his
countenance, which told him to be, even then, no stranger to those dark
storms of passion, or of secret sin which, sweeping over man's breast,
blight before its time the freshness, health, and purity of youth.
But how could Mary Seaham read all this? how should her guileless spirit
divine the wild, dark thoughts--the sinful purposes, unspeakable,
unspoken, which must even at that very time, like so many demons, have
been working, suggesting, forming themselves within the soul of him who
thus was seated by her unsuspecting side? And well for all of us, that
thus it must ever be--
"For what if Heaven for once its searching light
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all
The rude bad thoughts that in our bosoms' night
Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall;
Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place,
As if, fond leaning where her infant slept,
A mother's arm a serpent should embrace;
So might we friendless live--and die unblest."
* * * * *
Yet Mary need not have wondered, even had it been given her, to look in
less partial light upon the being who by his kindness and other
fascinating qualities had so propitiated her sensitive, susceptible
young heart.
Must the little brooklet wonder if the heated traveller, passing
fiercely on his dusty way beneath the noon-day summer sun, consumed with
inward fever and parching thirst; should turn with grateful delight to
kneel and bow his head over its cool and limpid waters, blessing
unawares the source of such pure refreshment.
But then, alas! he rises like a giant refreshed to pursue his course of
ambition, pleasure, sin to whichever of these that course may tend; and
what more does he think of that clear, pure stream, when quaffing freely
of those turbid waters, from which at length the fevered votary is fain
to slake his fiery thirst?
And thou silly stream, to retain so long the softened shadow of that
dark image, which for one brief minute had been reflected on thy limpid
bosom!
* * * * *
It was then five years since the period of the little episode we have
retrograded to relate, five years which had softly glided over Mary
Seaham's head, in the almost uninterrupted retirement of her mountain
home, and the simple enjoyments and pursuits this existence provided.
Five years, which at her happy hopeful period of life, adds, oftener
than detracts, from each charm either of mind or person--when, under
such untried circumstances, the heart springs forward upon the wings of
hope with freshness yet undiminished, and vigour unabated.
It was then between five and six years after, that Mary Seaham, on a
summer eve found herself approaching her cousin's house in ----, which
place she had last visited with her sister, Lady Everingham, and from
thence repaired to that fête which had proved no unimportant incident in
her life.