CHAPTER II.
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.
EW 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.
