Farewell; and if a soul where hatred's gall
Melts into pardon, that embalmeth all,
Can with forgiveness bless thee; from remorse
Can pluck the stone which interrupts the course
Of thought to God; and bid the waters rest
Calm in Heaven's smile--poor fellow-man, be blest!
THE NEW TIMON.
Eugene Trevor was fated to encounter another interview of importance
before he laid down to rest that night, or rather morning, succeeding
the meeting with Arthur Seaham.
He had gone forth, very soon after the departure of the latter, to seek
diversion for his disturbed and troubled spirit by excitement--that most
common resource of man under similar circumstances--offered in the shape
of those amusements belonging to the sporting club of which he was a
member.
He returned to the hotel more than one hour after midnight, to be
informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him on particular business.
"At this time of night?" was the impatient reply. "Who in the world can
it be?"
The gentleman had not given his name; he had come more than two hours
ago, but had expressed his intention of remaining to await Mr. Trevor's
return.
Eugene, with a certain uncomfortable feeling of misgiving at his heart,
proceeded to the apartment into which his unseasonable visitor had been
shown. Two candles burnt dimly on the table. Dark, pale, haggard, as the
imperfect light gleamed upon his features, looked the lover of the
gentle Mary, thus returning from those midnight excitements in which he
had plunged to dispel too haunting thoughts and vivid memories connected
with her pure and holy image; but a something of strange and startled
wildness was added to their expression, as his eyes fixed themselves
first uncertainly--and then gradually and clearly identified the face
and form of him who stood up to receive him--that tall, commanding form,
before which his own seemed to shrink into insignificance--that face,
as pale as was his own, but from before whose calm, steady gaze his eyes
for an instant quailed so fearfully.
"Eustace!"--"Eugene!" were the only words or signs of greeting exchanged
between them, and Trevor, as if momentarily overcome by the emotions
excited by the _rencontre_ with his mysterious visitor, sank upon a
chair by the table, and with perturbed and agitated demeanour, passed
his burning hand across his heated brow; whilst the other still stood
erect, looking down upon him with that stern and steady eye, almost
appalling in its intensity.
"To what am I indebted for this visit?" Eugene murmured at length, in
hoarse and sullen accents, slightly lifting up his head. "I thought--"
"You thought," replied the same deep, rich voice we last heard sounding
(though then in very different accents,) upon the Welsh hill side in
Mary Seaham's ear. "You thought, Eugene, that before this coming dawn,
many leagues of sea would be between us. And so it would have been, had
you not your own self broken the promise which bound me to that vow."
"Pshaw!" was the reply, in accents of impatient irony "a mere
accidental, unavoidable meeting, whose only fruit was the further to
overwhelm with despairing wretchedness her, for whose happiness and
welfare you profess such _disinterested_ regard."
"Yes!" was the calm, unmoved reply. "I saw her face turned towards me at
the time, that face I had used to behold serene, happy, innocent as the
angels in Heaven, and in its woeful change I read--"
"Your own most righteous work," interrupted Eugene, with a bitter
mocking laugh. "Had you seen her some time past, before the day when
you, like a spirit of evil, stepped in between us, you might have beheld
a sight which perhaps had pleased you even less; that angel face
brightened and beautified by her love for _me_."
"You are right, it would have pleased me even less, it would have seemed
to my eyes, like the dove spreading her silver plumes, all glittering in
the treacherous sunshine, to meet the vulture who has marked it for its
prey. Yet to-day, I seemed not to read upon that pale and tear-stained
countenance, the mere passing misery of the moment--that misery of
which I wish not to deny having been myself the inflictor--but that
which I might have seen--that which I once saw settled on a mother's
face; or still more haunting, terrible, impression, the despairing
misery one might image of a fallen angel, dragged down from her high
estate, by an unholy, unnatural alliance with a spirit of another
sphere. For, Eugene, your own heart, your own conscience must convict
you, that light with darkness, righteousness with unrighteousness,
Christ with Belial, have as much in common, as yourself, your nature,
your life, your principles, have to do with those of Mary Seaham; and
that to unite yourself with her, would be, I repeat, either to draw her
down to your own level--or, more blessed alternative, to break her
heart. But both of these destinies I had hoped to have seen averted. You
had assured me, it was easier for you to resign that 'mess of pottage'
as you slightingly denominated the inestimable treasure your soul had
greedily, but more harmlessly marked as your own, than the birthright of
which you were iniquitously possessed. You had assured me, that you
would find plausible means--and in that, I doubted not your powers, or
your will, if it were but to serve your own interest--to break off, not
only your engagement, but all further communication with Mary Seaham;
but, Eugene, I _doubt_ you. My back once turned--my _espionage_
abandoned, as I promised it should be, from the time I set my foot on
another shore, what will there then be to bound or restrain your
grasping, avaricious desires. I shall find myself twice trampled in the
dust, and Mary," his voice trembled as he spoke, "she whom I would save
from a fate, in my eyes, worse than death, she become your prize, your
sacrifice, your victim."
He whom Eustace thus severely addressed, retained a moment's moody
defiant silence.
"Your intention then, is to remain in England," he said at length, with
an assumption of haughty unconcern, though there might be perceived a
quivering of the eyelids, and an expression of anxious perturbation in
his downcast glance. "The old man," with trembling irony in his tone,
"will doubtless receive you gladly, and there will be nothing to retard
the nuptials of Mary and myself."
"No, nothing, if she--if Mary Seaham can consent to wed the man"--he
slightly unbared his wrist--"the man who has done this--the man whose
name must henceforth ring in her ears as a proverb, a reproach, a
by-word through the paths of society--the man whose very children shall
rise up and scorn him--whom God and man must alike reprobate and
condemn."
Eugene Trevor shrank back as from before some deadly serpent discovered
to his view. His eye quailed fearfully--his lips and cheek became of a
livid, ashy hue.
"Eustace," he murmured, in a voice of almost abject
deprecation--"Eustace, your feelings of revenge and hatred carry you too
far. You have repented of the agreement made between us, and have come
thus to threaten and intimidate me. _I_ never meant to draw back from my
part of the engagement; but if my promise has no weight in your
consideration, how am I to give you further pledge of my sincerity? I
swear to you," he continued, eagerly, "that, during the meeting to-day
with Mary Seaham, into which I was accidentally surprised, I held out no
hope--no promise which could give her reason to suppose that the
obstacle to our marriage could now or ever be removed. We parted with
that understanding; and to-night," he spoke in a low and hurried voice,
"she sent her brother here to break off our engagement, which could only
be maintained on such uncertain, uncomfortable terms."
"And you consented?"
"What else had I to do?"
"Now may Heaven be praised," was the low, deep, earnest answer--the
voice of the speaker swelling as into a strain of rich, clear music;
whilst with upraised eyes, and countenance lit up with holy adoration,
he thus ejaculated: "Now Heaven be praised, who sends His angels to
protect his little ones from the powers and spirits of darkness!
Eugene," he proceeded, again turning to his companion, but with a
subdued and softened expression, "you, too, thank your God, that from
this additional sin you have been mercifully preserved; from that
offence which it were better that a millstone were hung about your neck
than that you should commit. You, too, have your reward: take it. I
leave it in your hands. I will trouble you no more. Home, name, country,
and heritage, I willingly resign; but remember, on that one condition.
Retain it only inviolate, for from the ends of the world, its broken
faith, its most secret violation, would recall me. Farewell, Eugene!
Should we never meet again on earth, believe that I forgive you all
offences against me. Nor put down either to revenge, or even _madness_,
that which He who seeth the heart will, I humbly trust, justify in the
eyes of men and angels, before His judgment throne, on the last great
day of account; and there and then, where sin and wrong, and
wretchedness, shall be done away, may we both meet sanctified,
reconciled, and renewed."
He was gone. No other parting sign was given; and he, who had now added
one more sin to the already dark catalogue of his offences, the purchase
of his freedom from a dreaded evil by a lie, was left darkling and
alone.
As those two had met, so they parted--those two men whom our readers may
already have divined were brothers.