"What could I tell you concerning him, but that he is a wanderer upon the face of the earth, as you—as everybody are aware."
"But why—but wherefore should this be; why forsake his country, his home, his kindred? Now, when Louis de Burgh gave me reason to suppose all further necessity was removed, his temporary affliction entirely subsided, why not return?"
"Return!" interrupted the other—"return with that brand—that stigma—which once attached to his name, must mark him in the eyes of men—a thing of suspicion, nay, of fear for ever; return, when that return must be to hear that curse in every blast—to be cut off from every hope, every tie which makes life beautiful to other men, or—" he paused; for he was on the point of saying, "or—bitter alternative—brand a still worse stigma on another; on one who however unworthy of such consideration, I must still remember as my brother." Thus he probably would have spoken, had not he been recalled to recollection by the strange and anxious expression depicted on Mary's countenance, and then he added, with an effort at self-command:
"The imputation of madness is a fearful thing, Miss Seaham, to be attached to a man's name; and Eustace Trevor, unfortunate man! is possessed of feelings most sensitive—morbidly sensitive, perhaps."
"It is—it is," Mary faltered, "a fearful thing if suffered to rest there; but surely his is not the course to accomplish the removal of the idea. Let Eustace Trevor but return—let him at least try and experience what a brother's kindness—what a sister's love can do, to wipe from his remembrance the morbid memory of his past affliction; and show to the world (if he fears its altered smiles) that the shock his noble mind sustained was but for a moment; that he is—"
But it was enough—those words, a brother's kindness—still more, a sister's love, had thrilled acutely upon the listener's heart.
And Mary paused, startled to behold the expression in the eyes bent so earnestly upon her.
"A sister's love!" what was such love to him!
However, with another strong effort he said in a voice scarce audible from emotion, "For such a sister's love, he might indeed brave and defy the scorn—the ignominy of the universe; but," he faltered, "it cannot be."
A silence of some minutes ensued. It was broken by Mary, who said in an anxious trembling voice,