Thou too art gone--and so is my delight,
And therefore do I weep, and inly bleed,
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
Thou too art ended--what is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear--and how?
BYRON.
As may be supposed, the peaceful vale of Ll---- from this time forth
became an altered place to Eustace Trevor. "There are places in the
world we never wish to see again, however dear they be to us." Such to
his disappointed heart was Mary Seaham's deserted home, and every spot
in the vicinity haunted by associations connected with that loved being.
Yet he lingered, pursuing his former avocations, partly from principle,
partly from the painful pleasure thus afforded, partly from the anxious
desire to remain upon the spot, where alone he could hope to receive
tidings of his lost one.
A strange restless foreboding had been excited in his mind from the
first moment that he had heard of Mary's intended destination; and it
was this, no doubt, which in a great measure urged him to take the
decisive step which had proved so unavailing. Not of course had he in
any way embodied the real nature of the misfortune his ominous fears
presented; that event would indeed have seemed a coincidence too fearful
to be conceived probable; but besides there being something most
repellant to his feelings in the idea of that gentle object of his
heart's unhappy affections wandering away into the sphere now so darkly
associated in his mind--some presentiment of danger and sorrow to
herself, quite unconnected with any selfish considerations, had darkly
mingled. All through that summer then, whose brightness to him was gone;
all that autumn too, till like his own fallen hopes, the yellow leaf lay
thick around, "and the days were dark and dreary," he stayed;
then--then--had reached his ears, at first by vague and dull report,
tidings which froze into the very ice of winter the life-blood in his
heart--Miss Mary Seaham was going to be married to a very rich and
handsome gentleman of those parts; and his name--yes, that was it--he
would have thanked Heaven on his knees, had it been any other name on
earth--that name. It came with terrible exactness, that name was "Eugene
Trevor." Then, indeed, a dreadful feeling of horror, of despair,
assailed him. His cup of bitterness was full; could malignant fate do
more to crush him?
Mary Seaham, the wife of his brother! Of him who had dealt so
treacherously by him, who without cause, had proved himself his deadly
enemy. _His_ wife? nay his victim. Another angel victim, of
covetousness, tyranny, and vice. It must not, nay, it _should_ not be;
anything--everything must be done to avert the sacrifice. In a word,
every other consideration was at an end. He left Ll---- and went to
London; there he traced out that faithful servant to whom we have
alluded, and through him took steps to gain a too sure confirmation of
what he had heard, and besides that, many particulars concerning the
mode of life of his brother, during the interval of their separation,
which only served to invest with fresh horror, the idea of his union
with Mary.
His course was taken. He wrote to his brother the momentous letter,
which turned the current of poor Mary's bliss.
* * * * *
"When you and I parted, Eugene, nearly five years ago, it was with the
sole determination on my part, never again to seek communication with a
man who had acted as none other, than _a brother_, could have acted,
without drawing upon himself the just retribution on my part, such
conduct so justly deserved, I mean the public exposure of its villainy
to society--to the world. But as it was--more in sorrow than in
anger--sorrow which in the estimation of those less scrupulous and
sensitive than myself, might have been deemed carried to a morbid and
irrational extent--in sorrow of heart, the bitterness of death could
hardly surpass, sorrow and amazement that such perfidy could exist in
one I had loved as my own mother's son; the impulse of my grieved and
wounded spirit prompted me to act in a manner exactly the reverse. My
determination had been to repair to some distant foreign land. But mere
accident, or I should say, hidden Providence, ordered it otherwise. I
spent the winter in a wild unfrequented part of North Wales; and on
leaving that, was taken ill at a small town, some miles distant. A few
weeks more and circumstances caused me to fix my wandering steps in a
secluded valley, where for the few succeeding years I assisted the
clergyman of the place in the duties of his profession, and in
conformity with the course of conduct I was pursuing, under the name of
Edward Temple. Does this give you any clue to the motive of the present
unwelcome communication? Have you ever heard that unfamiliar name pass
the lips of her, whom report tells me you are to make your wife--the
lips, I mean, of Mary Seaham? if so as it would have been but natural,
she may have further spoken, and told you of the love she had inspired
in that same Edward Temple's breast; and you smiled, no doubt, in pity
at the disappointed ambition of the country curate. Eugene, now indeed,
I own that you have honourably won that--to which, in comparison, all
that by wrong and treachery you ever sought to rob me is as dross
indeed, in my estimation--the love of as pure a heart, as angel-like a
spirit as ever breathed in the form of woman. But this, Eugene, must
suffice you; here your triumph must end; unless, indeed, you care to
prove your affection by a stronger test than I imagine it would be able
to stand; for at once I come to the point, and tell you Eugene, that I
cannot suffer this concerted marriage of yours to take place, without a
powerful effort on my part, to avert it--to save the pure and gentle
being whom I shall ever love, from the fate that marriage, I feel, must
ever entail upon her.
"That it springs from no bitter feelings of disappointment or rivalry,
on my part; but is as disinterested in its nature, as if I had never
loved Mary Seaham but as a brother might have loved a sister, God truly
knows; but it would be throwing words away, I fear, to attempt to
convince one like you--in whose imagination the possibility of any such
purity and disinterestedness of motive cannot exist. Well, interpret it
as you may--only break off this engagement, which, from what I hear of
the sentiments of some of her friends, will not be so very difficult.
Break it off, and for what I care, the world may still think me mad; for
what I care, you may still retain the position you now hold--so much as
it appears, to your own satisfaction and contentment--in the eyes of
society. Refuse to do this, and I come forward, and ask the world--ask
her friends--ask Mary herself, whether a man who had acted as you have
done, is worthy to be her husband; and then, I am much mistaken, if when
that delusive veil, which now robes her idol, be thus withdrawn--she,
yes, Mary, does not shrink with horror, from what is there revealed.
"Spare yourself, Eugene--spare her--spare her pure eyes, her innocent
spirit this exposure. You will say, the alternative is as cruel--that
her affection is too great to bear the destruction of her hopes, without
such pain and grief as none who really loved her, as _I_ profess to do,
would willingly inflict.
"This may be--her love may be true, and deep. The tears she may shed at
its destruction be bitter--time may be required to heal the wound. But
were these tears to swell the ocean's tide, or the wound to prove
incurable, far better even this, than to live the life--to die the
miserable death of your father's wife--of her husband's mother!
"And what in your career, Eugene, even setting aside that one crime,
with which I am personally concerned, is there, which can ensure her
any better destiny?
"No; your mode of life during the last five years, I have taken measures
to ascertain. Can you deny that it has been one long course of sin, of
profligacy?
"One dark deed, followed by atonement and remorse, might have been less
baneful to her happiness, than the systematic career of vice you now
habitually pursue.
"What more can I add; but that I shall expect your written answer. I
feel assured you will, no less than myself, desire, if possible, to
avoid all personal communication. Direct to the General Post Office,
London, where, till I am assured that my object is properly secured, I
shall remain; and now, Eugene, farewell! God knows, that everything in
the terms and substance of this letter, which may appear dictated by a
harsh or threatening spirit, springs rather from the wretched
circumstances of the case, our most unnatural and unavoidable position,
one towards another--not from the temper of my mind towards you. Heaven
be my witness, that I would gladly give my heart's blood at this moment,
to discover that the past was but a horrid dream, and that now, as in
years gone by, I could without fear, that the very air would repeat the
words in mocking echo, sign myself,
"Your affectionate brother,
"EUSTACE TREVOR."