I knew that in thy bosom dwelt
A silent grief, a hidden fear,
A sting which could be only felt
By spirits to their God most dear,
Which yet thou felt'st from year to year,
Unsoftened, nay, embitter'd still;
And many a secret sigh and tear
Heaved thy sad heart, thine eyes did fill,
And anxious thoughts thou hadst presaging direst ill.
MOULTRIE.
The sequel only brought forth for our heroine further disturbance and
discomfort.
The newly-risen impediment to the marriage was of necessity the subject
of correspondence. He again threw the blame upon his father, urging his
increasing infirmities of mind and body as the excuse.
But the plea appeared to Mary's friends evasive and ambiguous, and
greatly indeed was the strength and stability of her affection tried by
the urgent solicitations of those so dear to her, that she would consent
to break off entirely this ill-starred--and as they the more and more
considered it--objectionable engagement.
But no, there was yet one still more dear to her; and to him, through
good and evil report, her spirit yet must cling--
"And stand as stands a lonely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument."
By letter too--for there was one crisis of affairs during which the
lovers corresponded on the anxious subject, Eugene failed not to urge
the maintenance of an engagement which on his part he declared he would
never consent to be the first to relinquish.
Then, how could Mary cast aside an attachment, a hope which had become
so linked with the happiness of her existence, that to contemplate its
extinction, was to see before her extended
"Dreary and vast and silent the desert of life."
No, rather was she content in doubt, darkness and uncertainty to wait
and wander, her hope still fixed upon the distant light in the hazy
future.
A position, such as that in which Mary found herself placed--an
ill-defined and ambiguous matrimonial engagement--is to a young woman
ever, more or less, a misfortune and a trial: something there is in her
life
"Incomplete, imperfect, and unfinished,"
comprising also as it must do, much of uncertainty and restless doubt.
The circumstances of Mary's case, rendered hers more peculiarly a
subject for such influences. Removed from the sphere in which her lover
moved, even their correspondence, after the time just mentioned,
entirely ceased; and she heard of him only at intervals--by chance and
vague report.
She had longed to have those doubts and repellant ideas, Mr. de Burgh's
conversation had insinuated into her mind, cleared away, as she believed
they might, by Eugene's own word of mouth. But this had been denied her.
She had indeed alluded to the report respecting his brother, which Mr.
de Burgh had heard; but Eugene had merely said in reply, that he was
taking every measure to ascertain its accuracy; and she heard nothing
further on that point.
From Mrs. de Burgh she also ascertained that her cousin Louis had never
carried out his proposed expedition, in search of the friend for whom he
had professed such warm admiration and interest.
Mary was not so much surprised at this, it being only accordant with her
cousin's ineffectual character--warm and affectionate in heart and
feeling, but unstable in action and resolve; without self-devotedness or
energy in any duty or pursuit, which turned not on the immediate fancy
or interest of the moment--something else had probably put the
intention out of his head. It did seem to Mary strange and unnatural,
that the disappearance of a man such as Eustace Trevor had been
represented to her lively and susceptible fancy, should have been so
tamely endured by his friends in general, to say nothing of his own
brother; but to think on that point was now to raise such a dark and
bewildering cloud of ill-defined misgivings, that Mary put it from her
mind as much as possible.
There was another point too, on which she indirectly sought
enlightenment and assurance. Eugene's mother. Alas! there indeed she had
heard enough to make her shudder at the idea connected with much within
that house, which she had visited with such pleasure in her unconscious
innocence--but more especially with that sinful old man, who, in the
garb of venerable old age, had been by her so ignorantly revered; yes,
she shuddered to think how appearances may deceive, and shrunk at the
thoughts of ever entering again the scene of such wickedness, as long at
least as Eugene's father continued there to exist.
That Eugene had in the remotest degree even countenanced that
wickedness, was another point she would not allow herself to
question--or rather, she put it away, like every other deteriorating
rumour, hearsay, or inarticulate whisper, which in the course of time
come with its airy hand to point out her lover as unworthy of the
devotedness of a heart and affections such as hers; put it away in the
utmost recesses of her heart, as we do those things we fear to see or
hear substantiated--when even a breath, a word would suffice to destroy
the illusion now become so closely interwoven with the happiness of
one's existence.
In the meantime, Mary lived chiefly with the Gillespies though her
heart's true home was with that dear brother, upon whose progress and
success in his profession the chief interest of her life, independent of
her one great hope, was centred; and who, on his part, unselfishly
devoted every interval between the course of study he so energetically
pursued, to her society, endeavouring in every way to promote her
happiness or amusement; and chafing inwardly as he did, over the
position in which she stood; for her sake preserved outward patience and
equanimity, on a point which nevertheless touched him to the quick. Much
he heard, too, which made him devoutly wish the engagement with Eugene
Trevor to be broken off, without his having courage to take the bandage
from his sister's eyes. Much of the private history of these, Eugene
Trevor's days--we call them--of probation--nay, the profligate course
his love for Mary could not even restrain within bounds. Episodes in his
daily walk, with which it is not our intention to sully our pages, but
calculated to make the brother's blood boil with indignation at the idea
of his pure, spotless sister, becoming the wife of such a man.
But how difficult the task to force on her unsuspecting mind convictions
which might go nigh to break her trembling innocent heart--or at least
blight the happiness of her life. He must patiently allow fate to work
out its course, fervently praying that all might end well.
* * * * *
About a year and a half went by--another six months and Arthur Seaham's
term of law study would have terminated; and he declared that to prepare
himself for his last important term, it was necessary that he should
have some more than ordinary relaxation of mind. He had a fancy to go to
Italy, and that Mary should accompany him. She smiled at first
incredulously, thinking he was in jest. She thought the idea too
delightful to be realised.
He was in earnest, he declared.
But the journey would be so long; and the expense--could they manage it?
What were such considerations to the affectionate brother, when he
remarked the glow which had mantled his sister's pale cheeks, or the
animation which lit up her languid eye, as in imagination the warm
breezes of Italy already fanned her brow--her feet trode lightly on its
classic grounds. Their friends had a few prudent objections to the
plan--Italy was so far; Germany--the Rhine, were suggested. But no;
Arthur saw that Mary's countenance fell when the mark fell short of
Italy, therefore he stood firm.
And thither then the brother and sister went, with an old attached
maid-servant of the family, who still followed the fortunes of the
unmarried daughter; and by the Rhine and Switzerland they proceeded into
Italy.