_York._ I’ll not be by, the while; My Liege, farewell;
What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood
That these events can never fall out good.
_King Richard the Second._
New Year’s day at last arrived, the time so anxiously waited for by
Forsyth; a cold clear winter morning; and Mary, invited specially by her
sister-in-law, leaves home to help--to help in some little preparations
for the evening, was the reason or plea assigned by Mrs. James to secure
Mary on that morning; and even Christian had nothing to object to a
request so reasonable, though it must be said that Christian did not
like her sister to be much among Mrs. James’s friends. Nor had Mary
herself been wont to like it either, but the Mary of a year ago is not
the Mary of to-day; she has not grown indifferent to Christian’s wishes;
very far from that, Mary was perhaps more nervously anxious to please
Christian than ever in all lesser things; she felt that a kind of
atonement, a satisfaction to her conscience, for her encouragement of
the one engrossing feeling of her heart, of which she dared not indeed
seek Christian’s approval. For the thought that in this most important
particular she was deceiving, or at least disingenuous to her dearest
friend, concealing from her what it so concerned her to know, gave Mary,
acting thus contrary to her nature, many a secret pang. But though this
secret clouded her brow and disturbed her peace at home, she hid it in
her own heart. Still how strange that Mary should be lightsome and
happier with her brother’s wife, whose character was in every respect so
inferior to her own, than with her gentle sister; yet so it was, and
Mary’s heart beat quicker when she entered James’s house, and quicker
still when she saw there was some other visitor before her. Who it was
she needed not to ask, for Forsyth sprung to her side, as she entered
the cheerful room, with low-voiced salutation, and a glance that brought
the blush to her cheek, and caused her fair head to bend over the merry
little boy that came running to her knee, and hailed her as “Aunt Mary.”
“Call me uncle, James, that’s a good little fellow, call me Uncle
Walter,” said Forsyth.
Mary’s blush grew deeper; but James the younger was said to resemble
Aunt Christian in many things, and in nothing more than in disliking
Forsyth; and he was not to be conciliated, either with sugar-plum or
toy, but remained steadfast in his childish instinct of dislike, so he
said bluntly, “No,”--a bad omen this; but Forsyth was not to be
discouraged, and Mrs. James, nettled a little by it, proceeded at once
to open the campaign. Some new music was lying on the table, and she
pointed to it.
“See, Mary, here is a present from Mr. Forsyth,” she said, laughingly,
“but there is a condition attached to it which depends on you for its
fulfilment.”
Mary, glad of anything to hide her confusion, bent over the table to
look at it. “Well,” she said, “and what is the condition that depends on
me.”
“Nay, ask the giver,” said Mrs. James, “he must make his agreement with
you himself, I cannot make bargains for him.”
Mary was half afraid to lift her eyes to Forsyth’s face, but she did so,
and asked by a glance what it was he required.
“The condition is not a very difficult one,” said he, in his most bland
and soothing tone, “it was merely that Mrs. Melville would get you to
sing this song for me. I was afraid I should fail did I ask myself.”
“And why this song, Mr. Forsyth,” asked Mary, “is it such a favourite?”
“I heard you sing it a year ago,” was the answer, spoken too low, Mary
thought, to reach Mrs. James’s ear, and again the blood came rushing in
torrents to her face.
Mrs. James began to move about as though about to leave the room; this
silence would not do, it was too embarrassing, and Mary resumed, though
her voice had likewise grown imperceptibly lower. “Christian is very
fond of this song, and we all of us like it because she does.”
Mrs. James heard this, however, and, elated by Mary’s coming to her
house that morning, and her own expected triumph over Christian, she
could not resist the temptation. “Oh, Christian has such strange
notions,” she said gaily, “she likes things that nobody else does. I
can’t conceive why you are all continually quoting Christian--Christian!
one hears nothing else from James and you, Mary, but Christian,
Christian.”
“Christian never set her own inclination in opposition to any other
person’s wish in her life,” said Mary, warmly; “you do not know
Christian, Elizabeth, or you would not speak of her so.”
“Miss Melville’s good qualities,” chimed in Forsyth, “Miss Melville’s
rare qualities, must gain as much admiration wherever she is seen, as
they seem to have gotten love and reverence from all who are within the
range of their beneficent exercise, and who have the privilege of
knowing their value fully;” and he smiled his sweetest smile in Mary’s
face, as she looked up to him with grateful glistening eyes, and
inwardly thanked him for his appreciation of dear Christian in her
heart.
How superior, thought Mary, is he to such worldly people as Elizabeth,
and her coterie, _he_ appreciates Christian, _he_ can estimate her
properly. Yet Mary, all the time that her heart glowed under these
feelings towards Forsyth, felt that she had thwarted Christian’s warmest
wishes, and is still farther thwarting them by the very look with which
she thanked Forsyth for his championship. Mrs. James is at the window
carefully examining the leaves of some rare winter plants--another gift
of Forsyth’s giving; and there ensues another awkward silence. At length
she breaks in once more.
“Am I to have my music, Mary? will you fulfil the conditions Mr. Forsyth
has attached to this, or shall I have to send it back again?”
Forsyth is leaning over her chair, anxiously waiting for her answer.
Mary is at a loss what to do, but cannot say, No. Again Mrs. James is
occupied with the flowers.
“This is an era with me, Miss Melville,” Forsyth whispered in Mary’s
ear; “this day twelve months I first saw you.”
Mary’s fingers still hold the music, but the sheets tremble in her
hands. “Is it, indeed?” she says. “Oh, yes! I remember, it was at
Elizabeth’s annual party! It is an era to us all, also. We too have many
recollections connected with the New Year, but they are all sorrowful.”
“Not mine,” returned Forsyth. “Do you know, Miss Melville, I was much
struck then by your resemblance to a young man I once knew in Edinburgh,
a very fine gentleman-like lad of your own name too. I often wonder what
has become of him. I had some hand in inducing him to change some
ridiculously rigid opinions of his; when a fit of superstitious fear
came over him, and I believe his regard for me changed to a perfect
hatred.”
Here Mr. Forsyth looked over to Mrs. James, as much as to say, it was
full time for her to go away.
The light is swimming in Mary’s eyes, everything before her has become
dim and indistinct; and she trembles, not as she trembled a moment
since, with agitated pleasure--it is horror, dread, fear that now shakes
her slender frame, and looks out from her dim and vacant eyes. There is
no trace now of the blush which wavered but a little ago so gracefully
upon her cheek, it is pale as death, as she sinks back into her chair.
Forsyth and Elizabeth both rushed to her side. What is, what can be, the
matter?
“Nothing, nothing, I shall be better immediately,” she said, shuddering
as she raised herself up again, and drew away the hand which Forsyth had
taken; “I am better now, much better.”
A look of intelligence and mutual congratulation passed between her
companions. Poor thing, she is agitated, and out of sorts with the
novelty of her position; but what matters that, they are quite sure of
Mary now, and Mrs. James glides quietly out of the room.
As soon as she has gone, and they are left alone together, Forsyth with
all the eloquence of look and tone and gesture he can command, pours his
suit into Mary’s ear. How entirely will he not be devoted to her, to her
happiness. How perfectly does she reign in his affections; but it seems,
unless from a shiver, which thrills through her frame from time to time,
that he speaks to a statue, alike incapable of moving from that charmed
place, or of articulating anything in answer to his petition. Forsyth
becomes alarmed, and entreats, beseeches her to speak to him, to look at
him only, to return the pressure of his hand, if nothing more definite
is to be said or done; and suddenly Mary does look up, pale and troubled
though her countenance be, into his face, and speaks firmly:--
“Where, Mr. Forsyth,” she said, gazing at him as though she could
penetrate the veil, and read his inmost heart; “where did that young man
go, that you were speaking to me of just now; the one,” she added, with
hasty irritation, as she marked his astonished and deprecating
gesture--“the one you thought resembled me; to what place or country did
he flee? Answer me.”
“Mary, dear Mary!” pleaded Forsyth, “why ask me such a question now? why
terrify me with such looks. That superstitious fellow can be nothing to
you; and you, dear Mary, are all in all to me.”
Mary’s voice is still trembling, notwithstanding her firmness, and the
very force of her agitation has made it clear. “Where did he go to?” she
repeats once more.
“I do not know; I believe to America, the universal refuge,” answered
Forsyth, half angrily. “But why do you torment me thus, and answer my
entreaties by such questions? What has this to do with my suit? Will you
not listen to me, Mary?”
As he spoke, she rose with sudden dignity, and repelled the proud man
who subdued and supplicating half knelt before her. “Much, Sir,” she
said, with emphasis; “it has much to do with what you have said to me.
I, to whom you address your love--I, who have been deceived into
esteeming you so long--I, am the sister of Halbert Melville; of the man
whom your seductions destroyed!”
It is too much, this struggle, the natural feeling will not be
restrained, and Mary Melville hides her face in her hands, and tries to
keep in the burning tears. Forsyth has been standing stunned, as though
a thunderbolt had broken upon his head, but now he starts forward again.
She is melting, he thinks, and again he takes her hand in his own. It
is forced out of his hold almost fiercely, and Mary, again elevated in
transitory strength, bids him begone; she will not look upon the
destroyer of her brother with a favourable eye, nor listen to a word
from his lips.
A moment after, the passengers in the street are turning round in
astonishment, to look at that face so livid with rage and disappointment
which speeds past them like a flash of lightning, and Mrs. James
Melville was called up to administer restoratives to her fainting
sister--sweet gentle Mary.
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