But now, alas! the place seems changed,
Thou art no longer here:
Part of the sunshine of the scene
With thee did disappear.
LONGFELLOW.
Confess! Record myself
A villain!
VENICE PRESERVED.
Mary Seaham's letter reached Montrevor the day after Mabel Marryott's
funeral. Eugene Trevor tore it open eagerly, turned ashy pale as he
perused it, then, thrusting it into his pocket, went about his business
as before.
Day after day went by, and the letter remained unanswered--unacted upon.
With sullen defiance, or silent contempt, Eugene Trevor seemed to have
determined upon treating the earnest appeal the important requisition
it contained. The appeal he endeavoured to consider it of a weak, simple
woman, who probably looked upon an affair of so serious--nay, he was
forced to acknowledge, so fearful--a nature in no stronger light than
that of some romantic fiction, only costing the actor engaged in it the
struggle of some heroic and high-wrought feeling to bring the matter to
a satisfactory issue; and who little knew that it would have been far
easier to him to put a pistol to his head, than to draw down upon
himself such ruin--in every sense of the word--as the sacrifice so
calmly required of him by the fair and gentle Mary Seaham must entail.
"Senseless girl! what! recall my father's incensed heir to his admiring
friends, now all up in arms at the treatment--the persecution, they
would call it--that he had received at my hands! restore him in all the
strength and brightness of his intellect, striking conviction to every
mind as to the truth of the testimonies, which would not fail to start
up on every side, to substantiate the false nature of the plea which had
alienated him from his lawful rights. Then how would vague reports find
confirmation! surmises, suspicions be brought to light! And what would
become of _me_? what would become of my debts--my character--my
honour--my covetousness?"
If these were in any sort the reflections which influenced Eugene Trevor
for the next week or so after the receipt of Mary's letter, that letter
seemed to have had at any rate the power of subduing for a time his
energies and courage in the prosecution of former designs.
He made no attempt to alter his father's obstinate determination to keep
wholly to his bed. He seemed suddenly to have lost his anxiety as to
securing the will, and discovering the remaining forged notes. He was
moody, gloomy, apathetic. One day chance took him to that part of the
house where his mother's boudoir was situated. Pausing as he passed the
door, he pushed it open, and entered.
The window was open--the sunbeams played upon the old quaint furniture,
the room seemed fresh, and bright, and clear, in comparison with the
rest of the house; which ever since Marryott's death and funeral seemed
to have retained the influence, and impressed him with those revolting
ideas attached to the signs and ensigns of mortality entertained by the
mind who cannot, or dare not, look beyond those consequences of
corruptibility for the object of that fearful power. A dark, pall-like
covering seemed spread over the whole house; a close, sickly atmosphere
to pervade it throughout.
But here--all this seemed to have been effectually shut out, as if the
destroying angel, as he brushed past with hasty wing, had seen the mark
upon that door, which forbade him entrance; and Eugene Trevor went and
stretched his head out of the window, breathing more freely than he had
done for many a day.
Suddenly, however, he drew back; the action had brought to his
remembrance just such another clear, bright sunny day, when he had last
stood leaning in that position; but alas! how differently accompanied.
Then alone with a fair, pure, gentle girl--her sweet presence, her
tender voice, infusing into his soul an influence which for the time had
lifted him almost above himself into a paradise of thought--of feeling
he had long since forfeited; and now alone--alone with his own dark
jarring thoughts--alone with that juggling fiend impenitent remorse
gnashing at his heart--alone with his present disquiet--with the
threatening fear of the future--the withering memories of the past. Well
might he have cried aloud for the lost dream which suggested this
comparison--a dream indeed false and treacherous in its foundation; for
except that conscience slept undisturbed, how was he different then to
what he is now. And yet he would fain have recalled it, for suddenly
with that association seemed to have taken hold upon his fancy a
passionate yearning, an impatient regret that he had not been able to
secure possession of the being who had at that time certainly exercised
a very worthy influence over his affections. A tormenting idea that his
marriage at that period might have warded off the evils now circling
threatening around his head; or at the worst have given him a fond and
devoted sharer in his fortunes, such as in the whole world he knew not
where to look for now. For how she had loved him! Yes, it was pleasant
and soothing to his feelings, in their present ruffled state, to
remember that he had been loved so tenderly, so purely, so entirely for
himself alone: and then came the stinging reaction--the remembrance
that he was no longer loved--that he had seen a look of fear, almost of
aversion, usurp the place of confiding affection in those soft and
loving eyes: that finally, she had fainted from mere abhorrence at the
idea of the promise he had pressed so urgently upon her--then too, when
it seemed she had not heard the story which proved the cause and subject
of her letter.
No--but she had been in Italy with his brother, that
martyr-hero--fascinated, enthralled, no doubt,--and he must lose,
relinquish her too. No, by heaven! that he would not do--that weak,
pale, soft-hearted girl, should he passively resign his power over her
also? villain or not as she might deem him, he must make her to believe
it were cruelty, perjury, and sordid unfaithfulness, to desert him
now--to break her vows, because she had discovered that there was one
with better claims than himself to the fortune and expectations she had
imagined him to possess.
* * * * *
In this new mood Eugene went to pay his customary morning visit to his
father's room, and there fresh fuel was added to the fire lately kindled
in his breast.
The old man had for the last few days taken a different turn. At first,
as we have said, his disenthralment from Marryott's guardianship had
been a relief to his mind; but to this feeling had succeeded a restless
disquiet as to the consequences of the removal of this Cerberus of his
household, and the destruction both of himself and property, fraud,
robbery, poisoning, fire, ruin and destruction in every possible shape,
seemed to be hanging over his head by a single hair. He was in a
perpetual fear whenever he found his son had left the house.
The day to which we allude, Eugene Trevor was assailed with the usual
amount of murmuring and complaint.
"Eugene, a pretty state we are in now. I should like to know what's to
become of us if we go on much longer in this manner."
"In what way, my dear Sir? everything seems to go on very quietly;
really, with scarcely half a dozen servants in the house, and all the
plate safe in the bank, I do not think there's any chance of much harm
being done."
"No harm? Gracious powers! how do you know what abominations of
extravagance are not going forward--you who are always sleeping miles
away from the wretches, and know not how I may be robbed, and cheated,
and eaten out of house and home. I'll tell you one thing, Eugene, I am
determined I'll get to the offices, if I'm carried there, and see to a
fraction every bit of meat weighed that comes into the house, as _you_
won't help me."
"My dear Sir, I would do everything in my power, I assure you, but the
chief object at present I think will be to try and find some second
Marryott, who, I hope," with a sneering emphasis on the words, "you will
find an equal treasure of honesty and faithfulness as the other."
"I don't want another Marryott," whined the old man, peevishly; "I won't
have a housekeeper at all, with their forty-guinea wages--they are as
bad as any of them--Marryott understood my ways--"
"And your coffers too, Sir," added Eugene, with a scornful laugh. "A
pretty hoard she had at the bank. I am sorry she made no will; I, as her
foster-son, might have been the better for it; but as it is, it belongs
to her husband, if he is yet alive."
"What's the use of telling me all this _now_," whimpered the father,
"when you let her go on doing it without giving me a hint?"
"Oh, my dear Sir, she saved it for you in other ways! 'Set a thief to
catch a thief,' you know, at any rate she let no one rob you but
herself, which, as so very old and faithful a servant, of course she
considered herself privileged to do; but set your mind at ease," he
continued more soothingly, as the old man writhed upon his bed, groaning
in agony of spirit, "I'll make it my business to find some honest,
decent woman, who at least will not be able to claim the privilege of
common property on the above-mentioned score."
"But how can you be sure of her being decent and honest?" still
persisted Mr. Trevor; "there's not one amongst the race, I believe, that
is so. I'll have nothing to do with any of them. I will tell you what,
Eugene," and the old man's eyes gleamed at the sudden suggestion, "the
only thing that's to be done--why don't you get a wife, and bring her to
live here, and keep the house?"
Eugene Trevor's brow darkened.
"A bright idea, Sir," he responded, ironically.
"Yes, yes," continued the old man; "what are you thinking of, Eugene,
that you don't marry? you're getting on in life; I was married before I
was as old by half. What's to become of the family and fortune--if
there's any left of it--if you don't marry?"
His son's eye brightened.
"And by the bye, now I think of it," the father continued, craftily,
"what became of that pretty young lady you brought here with Olivia, to
that grand luncheon some time ago? I liked her--her voice was soft and
gentle, and her manners sensible and quiet. She was something like your
mother, Eugene, when I married her; now why could she not do for you?"
"You remember, Sir, that when I did propose making her my wife, it did
not meet with your unqualified approbation," replied his son, evasively.
"Oh, didn't it! but that was long ago--then Marryott was here to look
after things, and she, I suppose, didn't like it; but now couldn't you
look her out again--she isn't gone, is she--you have not lost her?"
Eugene set his teeth hard together and did not immediately reply; but
then he said, fixing his eyes on the old man's face, and speaking in
tones of affected carelessness:
"After all, I do not see how _my_ marriage can be an affair of such
_great_ consequence, for you know, Sir, there is Eustace."
The old man's face convulsed terribly--that name had not for many years
past been uttered by Eugene or any one in his presence.
"Eustace," he murmured tremblingly, "and what has it to do with
Eustace--isn't he mad, or dead, or something?"
"He is not dead, certainly, Sir; and mad or not, he might be coming back
any day, to put in claims which would not make my marriage so very
desirable or expedient a business."
Mr. Trevor looked fearfully around him.
"But, Eugene," he gasped in a low, breathless whisper, "he's not
near--he's not likely to come and threaten me. You must keep the doors
fastened--you must keep him locked out."
"Oh, my dear father!" his son responded, "there's no such immediate
danger as all that; he's far enough off, and not likely to trouble you:
only I mean, if--if anything were to happen--then--then, of course, he
would be here to look after his own interests; for he's on the watch
for your death, I have been told on good authority, and therefore of
course you know it would not do for _me_ to run any risk--to marry for
instance--unless I can see my way a little more plainly before me."
The old man became livid with rage; all his ancient hatred against his
son seemed to revive at the suggestion thus insinuated against him.
"To watch for my death! and what then will that do for him--the
bedlamite? Eugene! Eugene!" grasping his arm, "never fear him--go and
get married--bring your wife here to look after the house, and I'll live
another half century to spite him, and then see who'll have it all.
We've got a will, Eugene, haven't we?" chuckling and rubbing his hands
exultingly.
"There was one made certainly, and a deed giving me the guardianship
over the entailed estates in case of your death, under plea of Eustace's
incompetency. But if you remember, you would not have a duplicate made
of it. I hope you have it safe."
"I'll look it out, Eugene," Mr. Trevor continued as if effectually
aroused by the new friction his old heart had received. "I have it safe
enough. I'll get up immediately--no, not to-day, but to-morrow. I'll
make a day of it, and put all things right."
"Very well, my dear Sir; keep yourself quiet for to-day. My man is here,
you can trust in him should you want anything. I'm going to ride for an
hour or two."
"Eh--to ride--where? I can't be left," the old man whispered.
"Oh, my dear Sir, William will take as good care of you as myself. I'm
really expiring for want of fresh air, and exercise. I'm going to ride
over to Silverton on a little business--to make inquiries you know about
my wife," he added, looking back with a laugh as he left the room.