There are some moments in our fate
That stamp the colour of our days.
And mine was sealed in the slight gaze
Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain,
And bowed my head beneath the chain.
L. E. L.
Mrs. de Burgh soon after led Mary to the drawing-room, when all that was
kind and affectionate, and calculated to reassure her young guest's
mind, with regard to her previously conceived misgivings, was expressed
by the former lady.
They were, however--owing probably to the lateness of the hour, soon
joined by the gentlemen.
Mr. de Burgh immediately sat down by his cousin's side, and, as if with
the intention of making himself more thoroughly agreeable than
circumstances had previously permitted, he entered into animated
discourse, in which, finding Mary perfectly able to sustain a competent
and intelligent part, he had speedily passed from the merits and beauty
of his children, and such like natural easy points of discussion, to
some improvements in the grounds, in which his interest seemed to be at
present much engrossed, showing more scientific and general information
on the whole than she had previously conceived him to possess;--he,
appearing on his part pleased to find so willing and intelligent a
listener in his young lady cousin.
Mrs. de Burgh in the meantime had, soon after the conversation commenced
between them, called Eugene Trevor away to the open window, and
conversed with him at intervals in a low, confidential voice, whilst
turning over a pile of new music lying on the ottoman by her side.
At last she called out to Mary, and asked her if she sung.
Mary replied in the negative, but remembering well the beautiful voice
possessed by Mrs. de Burgh before her marriage, she rose with glad
alacrity to solicit a song from her.
Mrs. de Burgh, whose question probably had been but a note of
preparation for her own projected performance, smiled compliance with
the request, and proceeded to the piano, whilst Mary, ensconcing herself
in a quiet nook between the piano and window, yielded her senses to the
soothing enjoyment which poetry and melody conjoined always afforded
them; and Mrs. de Burgh sung that evening only English songs, with a
beauty and pathos perfectly enchanting.
"My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far away into the regions dim of rapture,
As a boat with swift sail winging
Its way adown some many-winding river."
Many an evening Mary sat in that same place, and listened with
never-tiring pleasure to the same delightful songs, but never perhaps
with such pure, unmingled pleasure as had this sweet music on the
present occasion inspired her.
"Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother care, like a drowsy child,
Is laid asleep in flowers."
Once, at the close of a peculiarly beautiful ballad, she lifted up her
eyes, those "down-falling eyes, full of dreams and slumber," now gemmed
with a delicious tear, to encounter the dark orbs of Eugene Trevor, as
he stood shaded from the light, in the deep embrasure of the window.
"You are very fond of music," he said, coming forward with a smile, on
finding his earnest gaze thus discovered.
"Oh, very fond indeed!" Mary replied, with a low sigh, which marked
perhaps the spell of musical enchantment to have been broken by the
question, or it may be--the moment when some other power first fell upon
her spirit.
"Though who can tell
What time the angel passed who left the spell?"
"Very fond indeed," she continued; "but who is there that is not fond of
music?"
"That man for one," answered Mrs. de Burgh, turning quickly round, and
denoting by her glance "that man" to be Eugene Trevor. "He is not, I can
assure you; he cannot distinguish one note from another--a nightingale's
from a jackdaw's. I believe my singing is the greatest infliction I
could put upon him. Can you deny this?"
"Oh, if you choose to give me such a character to Miss Seaham, I can
have nothing to say against it, of course. I only hope she will not
judge me accordingly."
And Eugene Trevor laughed, and looked again at Mary.
"It is to be hoped not, indeed," chimed in Mr. de Burgh, who, as it
seemed, had become by this time tired of remaining _hors de combat_, in
the back-ground, and now came forward to join the trio; "for does not
Shakespeare say:
"'The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted--'"
He just glanced at Eugene Trevor, who, however, did not seem to have
paid any particular attention to this severe commentary on his want of
taste--then, with a smile at Mary, who also smiled most unconsciously
upon his declamation--proceeded to exonerate himself from any share in
such dark imputations, by joining his wife in a duet she placed
carelessly before him on the desk, and in which, for the first time that
evening, Mary had the satisfaction of hearing the voices of the married
pair, blended in notes and tones of harmony and love.
At its conclusion, Mrs. de Burgh quickly arose, declaring that they had
been very cruel in keeping Mary up so long, and that she must go to bed
immediately. Candles accordingly were lighted, and Mrs. de Burgh, before
wishing Eugene Trevor good night, impressed upon him again, her orders
that he should not desert them on the morrow.
Mr. Trevor shook his head, saying his father would expect him; but that,
at any rate, he need not go early, so they could talk about it in the
morning, and he shook hands with both ladies in adieu. Mrs. de Burgh
accompanied Mary to her room, where, after lingering a little to see
that she had everything that she could want to minister to her comfort,
she left the pale and now really-wearied traveller to her needful
repose. But though somewhat subdued by bodily fatigue, Mary, having
humbly knelt and lifted up her heart in prayers of devout gratitude for
the mercy which had not only preserved her in safety through her
journey, but "brought her to see her habitation in peace, and find all
things according to her heart's desire," lay down with a mind divested
of much of those gloomy misgivings, which had troubled her spirit on her
first arrival.
Was it alone the kindness her cousins had shown her that produced this
magic change? Perhaps so, for Mary was just at that age, and more still,
of that disposition when a word--a look--the most imperceptible
influence suffices to change the whole aspect of existence.
"Even as light
Mounts o'er a cloudy ridge, and all is bright,
From east to west one thrilling ray,
Turning a wintry world to May."
But she did not long remain awake to analyze her own sensations on the
subject. The echo of Olivia's "sweet" singing seemed to lull her senses
to repose, and she sank asleep to fancy herself again standing with Mr.
Temple on the hill-side heath.
At first Mr. Temple it seemed to be, till turning, she thought her
companion's form and face had changed into those of Mr. Trevor. And
pain, trouble, and perplexity were the impressions produced by the
circumstance upon her dreamy senses.
The same hand that had so lately pressed hers so gently on bidding her
"good night," was now in her dream wringing it with the fervent emotion,
which had marked her rejected lover's sorrowful farewell, till finally
she was awakened from her first light slumber, by finding herself
repeating aloud in soliloquy these strangely suggested words: "The voice
is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau!"