I am not false to thee, yet now
Thou hast a cheerful eye;
With flushing cheek and drooping brow,
I wander mournfully.
Thou art the same; thy looks are gay,
Thy step is light and free,
And yet, with truth, my heart can say,
I am not false to thee.
MRS. NORTON.
Spring was fast advancing. Arthur Seaham had returned some time from
Scotland, and had entered as a student of the Temple. The Morgans had
arrived in London, yet the cloud seemed only to thicken the more round
Mary's prospects.
The friends had ceased to pain her ears by any open animadversion of her
lover. They seemed to wait in moody silence the issue of affairs; the
dangerous and precarious condition, in which they had ascertained that
his father still remained--giving rise, in a great measure, to the idea
suggested by a vague hint from the son, that on this circumstance
depended the removal of the impediment which he professed had arisen
against his marriage--still excusing his non-appearance.
And Mary--though not to hear mention of that beloved name, was to her
almost as great an agony, as to know that injurious and suspicious
thoughts were silently harboured in the breast of those around her,
against that one loved being; and though her cheek day by day was
becoming more pale, her heart more sinking--yearning for her lover's
exculpation--yet more she still lived hopefully, trustfully, sure that
all would eventually be right.
Day by day, she thought "he will be here," sometimes that he might even
then be in London, only waiting to make his presence known until his
anxious consultations with his lawyers had set his mind more at rest.
Mary was sometimes induced to accept the urgent solicitations of her
sister Agnes to accompany herself and Sir Hugh, to such places of public
amusement as the yet early season rendered admissible.
Lady Morgan, blooming and happy as ever youthful wife could be; with her
indulgent husband, upon whom his continental sojourn, together with the
influence of his handsome young spouse, had produced quite a polishing
and refining effect, were established in a fashionable hotel, for the
short space of time which now, alas! that there was no marriage to be
celebrated, they intended--this season--to remain in London.
One night, when on the point of issuing from their private box at one of
the minor theatres, where they had been witnessing the performance of a
famous actress, a party of men, who had apparently occupied one of the
lower boxes on the same side of the house, rushed quickly past, laughing
and talking with light and careless glee.
Some glanced slightly on the young Lady Morgan; who happened to stand
forward at the time, and whose appearance momentarily attracted their
attention; but Mary, without being seen from her position behind her
sister, caught sight of the party as they passed.
Why did the beatings of her heart stand still--that sick faint chill
creep over her? could it be--oh, could it indeed be Eugene! nearly
foremost of that group, whose dark eye had flashed that cursory glance
upon her sister, as he hurried by--whose voice, in that well known
cheerful laugh (at least so it had ever been to Mary's ears) had echoed
on her heart, her anxious, longing, saddened heart?
Oh! could it be--and was it thus she now beheld him--he, whose last
embrace still thrilled her frame--whose parting kiss still lingered on
her lips--unconscious of her presence, careless, unthinking of her
grief.
Yes, thus she first beheld him, for whom she had so long watched and
waited,--and wept, when none were near.
"Mary dear, are you there?" her sister said looking back, when they had
stepped out into the passage. "But, my dear darling, how pale you look.
Sir Hugh," she exclaimed quite reproachfully to her husband, "pray give
Mary your arm," and with repentant alacrity the Baronet hastened to
offer his assistance to his half-fainting sister-in-law. "It was the
heat--the gas," poor Mary murmured; "she would be better when they went
into the air."
And she did then seem to revive, and entering the carriage, told not a
word of what had occurred to trouble her; nor hinted the fact of having
seen Eugene, (if indeed her bewildered fancy had not deceived her), even
to her brother, when she saw him on the morrow.
No, still in hope and trust, she waited patiently. The very next night
but one after this occurrence, she was again called for by her sister
and brother-in-law, to accompany them to the opera, but just re-opened
for the season.
Oh! the wistful earnestness of that sad eye, straining its aching sight
to discern some inmate of the opposite boxes, of the stalls below, who,
for one deceiving moment, made her heart beat fast, by some fancied
similitude with the object of her thoughts. But no, the vision of the
night before was not to be renewed on this occasion, though of its
reality--which at times she was almost inclined to doubt--she was not to
leave the house quite unassured.
Mary and her sister were waiting in the round room, expecting the return
of Sir Hugh, who had gone to look for the carriage; Lady Morgan, talking
to a gentleman with whom she was acquainted, when Mary's attention was
rivetted by the colloquy between two men, who had previously passed them
in the vestibule, and near whom they again found themselves standing,
evidently without the former being aware of their vicinity.
"Oh, yes!" said one, "that was Lady Morgan, the young wife of the rich
Sir Hugh, the Welsh baronet, more than twice her age; a fine looking
young woman; but did you see that pale, pretty girl who was with them;
do you know that she is Miss Seaham, her sister, Eugene Trevor's
intended."
"Ah, indeed? I saw Trevor to-day, and congratulated him, but I thought
he did not seem much to like the subject."
"No indeed; I hear he is rather trying to back out of the affair. Some
spoke in the wheel, I suppose about money matters, and the old father
who was thought to be dying, seems to have picked up again."
"Well, I should think there were a few things besides money, which would
rather stand in the way," was the reply, and then the speakers lowered
their voices as they talked on, and Mary heard--and wished to hear no
more.
"Dear Agnes, shall we go on? There is Sir Hugh coming," and Lady Morgan
felt a gentle pressure on her fair round arm, and looking back, caught
sight once more of her sister's pale and piteous countenance.
"My poor, dear Mary, these places certainly do not suit you," whispered
her affectionate young _chaperone_, as she passed her sister's trembling
arm through hers, and pressed onwards through the crowd to meet her
husband. "I must really carry you back with me as soon as possible to
our mountain breezes."
"Would that I had never left them, Aggy!" murmured poor Mary in low
plaintive accents, whilst an uncontrollable flood of tears came to her
full heart's relief.
* * * * *
The very next day, Mary set out on one of those expeditions, which at
this time might be called her only real enjoyment--namely, her visits to
her brother in his chambers at the Temple; often, as was the case on
this occasion, to bring him back to dine in Portman Square.
The Majoribanks' chariot, with its fat, slow, sleek horses, and steady
attendants, being conceded to her special use this evening; she went
forth heavy at heart, but anxiously striving to rally her spirits, to
meet her brother with that cheerfulness which in his society she ever
strove (and found it less difficult than under other circumstances) to
assume. It was rather early to proceed straight to the Temple, and
therefore Mary had agreed with her aunt, that she should go first to
execute some commissions in the opposite direction.
We can easily imagine from what source alone the interest could spring,
with which her sad eyes gazed through the carriage windows, as she
passed through some of the streets in this quarter.
Did she not know that somewhere in this vicinity, Eugene always lodged
when he came to town. And oh! to be passing perhaps the very door of the
house that contained him, was the gasping utterance of her heart, as she
swallowed down the tears which struggled upwards at this suggestion.
"But he--he does not care--he can be happy and cheerful without me," was
the still more bitter thought which succeeded, as she shrank back in the
carriage in dark and tearless dejection.
But from this she is aroused by one of those matter-of-fact realities of
common life, which form fortunate and salutary breaks in the tragic, or
the romance of man's existence.
The carriage stops before a fancy workshop in Bond Street, where many
colours for her aunt's worsted work are to be matched or chosen.
Mary does not herself alight; but gives a few directions to the well
initiated footman, who knows perfectly how to give the order--better
indeed perhaps than she herself--and sits in patient abstraction till
the man's return. He reappears, puts the parcel into the carriage, then
draws abruptly back, for some one has touched his arm, and signs that he
should give place.
Mary languidly lifts her eyes, and Eugene is before her. The place and
circumstance of this meeting, admitted not at first of any very open
demonstration of feeling, such as must necessarily have been excited. A
few low, hurried, agitated sentences were uttered by Trevor, as he bent
forward into the carriage towards Mary, whose pale lips could scarcely
articulate incoherent expressions of her sudden joy.
Then, by a peremptory gesture from the gentleman, the servant is
commanded to let down the steps. He obeys. Trevor springs in. The door
is closed; a moment's whispered consultation, and in faltering tones
Mary gives orders to be driven to the Temple, and the carriage rolls off
in that direction.
Once more alone together--once more by Eugene's side--Mary sees already
the cloud dispersed--fear, doubt, misgiving, vanished from her path.
How comes it, then, that misery and bewilderment is the confused
impression which this interview shall afterwards leave upon her mind?
How is it, that for the most part of that long way, she sits weeping
silently, her cold hand trembling in the burning palm of Eugene?--he now
in low, despairing accents bemoaning his grief, his pain--now
passionately cursing his wretched fortunes, his fatal circumstances?
But no explanation--no hope--no promised deliverance from the sorrow or
the evil.
Once, indeed, in a low and hurried tone, he breathed into her ear the
notion of a clandestine marriage--a secret union--one to be kept
concealed till such a time as the present necessity for secresy should
be at an end; the idea probably suggested to his mind by passing one of
those dark, often magnificent, but almost unfrequented churches, so well
suited, to all appearance, for the celebration of mysterious rites and
secret ceremonies, which rear their heads in some of the close, dark
streets of the city. But the firm, though gentle withdrawal of her hand,
the look of almost cold astonishment which marked her reception of this
desperate proposition, sufficed to convey to Eugene Trevor's mind the
full conviction that with all her yielding tenderness, her feminine
weakness of disposition, never must he hope to tempt his gentle,
pure-hearted love from the right, straight road of principle and duty
into any crooked path of deviating, or questionable proceeding.
"No, no, Eugene!" seemed to speak the sadly averted countenance. "No,
no, Eugene; the grief, the sin, the shame, whatever it may be, that now
stands between us, can never be set aside, be overstepped by such
unworthy means as you suggest. I can suffer, I can wait, I can make
every other sacrifice for your sake; but I cannot err--I cannot thus
deceive."
But suddenly, during the dreary pause that succeeded, Mary's eye
recognises some passing object, calling forth a momentary interest in
her mind, even in this moment of concentrated absorption of feeling.
She makes a quick forward movement of surprise; but when Eugene looked
inquiringly, as if to discern the cause of her apparent interest, the
momentary excitement died away, and she answered with melancholy
composure:
"It was only that I saw Mr. Temple pass--he of whom, you know, I told
you once."
"What--who--Eus--Temple I mean, did you say? Are you certain--quite
certain?" he exclaimed, with anxious, eager excitement, far surpassing
any which the recognition had excited in her own breast; "are you
sure--quite sure that it was he?"
"Yes" with a sigh; "I do not think I could be mistaken, for he looked so
earnestly into the carriage; but why--why, Eugene," looking at her lover
with a faint, melancholy smile, and some expression of surprise, "why
should it thus excite you?"
"My own dear love," Eugene now said, regaining possession of her hand,
and trying also to assume a forced smile, as well as tone of careless
unconcern, "I was not particularly excited, but you know I cannot help
feeling a slight degree of interest in that man after what you told me.
And did he see us? you, dearest, I mean?" he continued, still with a
degree of anxious solicitude in his tone.
"Yes, I think, I am almost sure, he did," she wearily replied, and then
her exhausted feelings sunk her again into a state of hopeless, listless
dejection.
And Eugene sat too, for a few minutes, plunged in anxious, thoughtful
silence, from which he was aroused by a glance towards the windows,
reminding him that they were approaching closely to Mary's destination.
Immediately, with an exclamation of despair, he pulls the check-string
and the carriage stops; the servant is at the door. There was but a
bewildered hasty parting. Trevor springs out into the street, turns upon
Mary one expressive, eager glance, and he is gone! The carriage
proceeds a little way, and then rolls within the Temple gates, and Mary
is found by her brother, when he comes hurrying down to meet her, pale,
trembling, nearly hysterical, from the effects of all her nerves and
feelings had undergone.