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 passive 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 compassion 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 identity 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
circumstances 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 accumulated 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 (noble and generous in
their origin as they were) which hitherto actuated his conduct, and to
return to England--to the world--reassert 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."
"And you do not find it very painful?"
A wan smile was the answer.
"Dear Mary!" the brother exclaimed, turning away to hide a bright drop
that started to his eye, "how shall we ever be able to repay you for all
you have suffered so long and patiently?"
A smile again played upon her lips, as she marked the _we_ for the first
time used in a speech of this nature, and putting her hand in her
brother's, she replied:
"By allowing me to witness your happiness, dear Arthur."
Too much occupied with unselfish concern for his sister, the young man
did not understand the speech as it was intended; but after a moment's
anxious consideration, inquired:
"Mary, has anything occurred since our conversation the day before
yesterday, to hasten this step? I know that Trevor went away early this
morning, but had you any meeting with him yesterday?"
"I had," she answered, colouring deeply; "but, Arthur," in a faltering
voice, "spare me any further questions; let what I have done suffice."
"Selfish--heartless--double-hearted," were the emphatic murmurings of
the young man's lips, as he turned away with dark and moody brow, "would
that _I_ might ask a few questions of him."
"Arthur!" Mary exclaimed, laying her hands reproachfully on his
shoulder, "you will make me believe that after all you are vexed and
disturbed that our engagement is over."
"No, Mary, Heaven knows that is not the case; but still, it makes my
blood boil to think how you have waited so long and faithfully, and that
after all your trust and patience will have been all in vain, that your
precious affection should have been wasted."
"Then, Arthur, console yourself with the assurance that I grudge no
measure of faith and patience I may have exerted. Faith and patience can
never be in vain; would that was all I have now to mourn over. As for
wasted affection--affection never can be wasted," unconsciously quoting
the words once sounded in her ear, in tones which ever since had
lingered there. "My affection, though blind, perhaps, and mistaken, was
pure and innocent. God will not suffer it to return fruitless to my
bosom."
* * * * *
Arthur Seaham was obliged to go and prepare himself for the judge's
dinner, and Mary to exert herself during her _tête-à-tête_ evening with
Miss Elliott.
The next day she was too ill to rise. Her maid was sent for, and with
her Mary a day or two after went to a pretty cottage not far distant,
belonging to her brother, where he was soon to join her. The Morgans
were not then in the country.