He sunk back on the sofa, and burst into tears. Hope had suddenly sprung up from the dark void which had been in his heart. Mrs. Hamilton could not check that suddenly-excited hope, but she did not share it, for she felt it came but to deceive. She whispered gentle and consoling words, she spoke of comfort that she could not feel. But once his energies aroused, they did not fail him. To go instantly to Paris, to seek Mr. Greville, and plead his own cause, aided by his father's influence, acknowledge he had been wrong in not asking his consent before, such thoughts now alone occupied his mind, and Mr. Hamilton could not check them, though, even as his wife, he shared not his son's sanguine expectations. That he had once possessed more influence than any one else over Mr. Greville he well knew; but he thought with Percy, the dislike felt towards him originated from this, and that it was more than probable he would remain firm in his refusal to triumph over both himself and his son; yet he could not hesitate to comply with Herbert's wishes. Ellen's suggestion had roused him to exertion, and he should not be permitted to sink back into despondency, at least they should meet.
It would be difficult to define Ellen's feelings as she beheld her work, and marked the effect of her words upon her cousin. Not a particle of selfishness mingled in her feelings, but that deep pang was yet unconquered. Herbert's manner to her was even kinder, more affectionate than usual, during the few days that intervened ere they parted, as if he felt that she had drawn aside the dark veil of impenetrable gloom, and summoned hope to rise again; and could she see or feel this unmoved? Still was she calm and tranquil, and she would speak of Mary and of brighter hopes, and no emotion was betrayed in her pale cheek or in that tearless eye.
Percy accompanied his father and brother. They travelled rapidly, and a favourable voyage enabled them to reach Paris in a shorter time than usual. Mr. Hamilton had insisted on seeking Mr. Greville's mansion at first alone, and Percy controlled his own feelings. To calm the strong emotion, the deep anxiety, that now he was indeed in the same city as his Mary, almost overpowered Herbert; the struggle for composure, for resignation to whatever might be the will of his God, was too powerful for his exhausted strength. Sleep had only visited him by snatches, short and troubled, since he had received Mary's letter; the long interval which elapsed ere Mr. Hamilton returned was productive of even keener suffering than he had yet endured. Hope had sunk powerless before anxiety; the strength of mind which had borne him up so long was giving way beneath the exhaustion of bodily powers, which Percy saw with alarm and sorrow; his eyes had lost their lustre, and were becoming dim and haggard; more than once he observed a slight shudder pass through his frame, and felt his words of cheering and of comfort fell unheeded on his brother's ear. At length Mr. Hamilton returned.
"She lives, my son," were the first words he uttered, but his tone was not joyful; "our beloved and gentle Mary yet lives, and soon, very soon you shall meet, not to part on earth again."
Herbert gazed wildly in his face, he clasped his hands convulsively, and then he bowed his head in a deep and fervent burst of thanksgiving.
"And Greville," said Percy, impatiently, "has he so soon consented? father, you have not descended to entreaties, and to such a man?"
"Percy, peace," said his father, gravely. "With Mr. Greville I have enchanged no words. Thank God, I sought not his house with any hostile intention, with any irritation urging me against him. Percy, he is dead, and let his faults die with him."
"Dead!" repeated the young man, shocked and astonished, and Herbert started up. His lip quivered with the vain effort to ask an explanation.
It was even so, that very morning Greville had breathed his last, with all his sins upon his head, for no time had been allowed him either for repentance or atonement. A few days after Mary had written to Herbert, her father had been brought home senseless, and dreadfully injured, by a fall from his horse. His constitution, shattered by intemperance and continued dissipation, was not proof against the fever that ensued; delirium never left him. For five days Mrs. Greville and Mary watched over his couch. His ravings were dreadful; he would speak of Dupont, at one time, with imprecations; at others, as if imploring him to forbear. He would entreat his child to forgive him; and then, with fearful convulsions, appear struggling with the effort to drag her to the altar. Mary heard, and her slight frame shook and withered each day faster than the last, but she moved not from her father's side. In vain Mrs. Greville watched for some returning consciousness, for some sign to say he died in peace. Alas! there was none. He expired in convulsions; and scarcely had his wife and child recovered the awful scene, when the entrance of the hated Dupont roused them to exertion. He came to claim Mary as his promised wife, or send them forth as beggars. The house and all that it contained, even to their jewels, were his; for Greville had died, owing him debts to an amount which even the sale of all they possessed could not entirely repay. He had it in his power to arrest the burial of the scarcely cold corpse, to stain the name of the dead with undying infamy; and he vowed that he would use his power to its utmost extent, if Mary's consent were not instantly given. Four-and-twenty hours he gave her to decide, and departed, leaving inexpressible wretchedness behind him, on the part of Mrs. Greville, and the calm stupor of exhaustion and despair pervading Mary's every faculty.
"My child, my child, it shall not be; you shall not be that heartless villain's wife. I have health; I can work, teach, do anything to support us, and why, oh, why should you be thus sacrificed? Mary, Mary, you will live, my child, to bless your desolate and wretched mother. Oh, my God, my God, why hast thou thus forsaken me? I have trusted in thee, and wilt thou thus fail me? To whom can I appeal—what friend have I near me?"