A dark and bewildered maze seemed to lie before her, and she sat there, pale and trembling at every sound, something grasped convulsively in her hand, her eyes fixed with a dark and anxious gaze upon the flickering fire-flame.
Times indeed were changed, since in serene and quiet happiness, Mary had so often waited at Silverton for her lover's approach. No one could have imaged forth an intended love-tryste from her aspect now. Yet the critical moment came. Eugene entered—the door closed behind him, and once more they were alone together. Mary having resumed her seat, with blanched lips and beating heart—he standing on the hearth-rug looking down upon her like as he had done on that memorable occasion of the first declaration of his love—that beginning of so much happiness—but greater misery to Mary. Alas! was this to be its end?
He began to speak hurriedly of the length of time since they had met, of the strange circumstances of their rencontre that day; Mary listening as to a voice speaking in a dream, and assenting mechanically, till finally, as he alluded more particularly to the circumstances of the case, mentioning the name of Mabel Marryott and the astounding facts which had transpired concerning that old—he had almost said faithful but he substituted long-established servant of the family. Then the pure blood mounted for a moment to Mary's brow, leaving something like a stern and calm resolution on her countenance; whilst to Eugene Trevor's somewhat complacent communication, as to what he had done for the daughter, the measures he had taken to secure her from further trouble and delay in the accomplishment of her emigration, she listened grave and unmoved, as if she deemed his proceedings in this respect had been but what was strictly due to the innocent sufferer of so much iniquity.
Yes, darker and darker seemed to grow the picture before Mary's eyes that house and home presented, of which she had once contemplated with such innocent satisfaction and happy anticipation becoming the mistress. Sin after sin, more or less strange and terrible to her startled spirit, rose up to scare and to repel her; so much so, that to think that one to whom she had been devoted, should have amalgamated himself even in a passive character with the influence of such a foul and infected atmosphere, was horrible to her feelings, and most 'blessed' indeed in comparison—'when men shall revile you and cast you out of their company'—appeared to her the persecuted in such a case.
Was it that some outward manifestation of these inward impressions revealed themselves upon her countenance, that Eugene regarded her with that keen and scrutinizing expression, as for a moment her eyes were, with a careworn abstracted look, cast downwards upon the ground.
"Now, Mary, let me hear something of yourself," he suddenly exclaimed, breaking off his former topic of discourse; "what have you been doing since I saw you last?"
Mary did not return the question; she did not ask "What have you been doing?" but as she looked up into her lover's face, what was it that made it impossible to return the smile, the glance, with which he awaited the reply? What was it that made her turn away her eyes with a pang—almost a shudder at her heart? Alas! what new impression did she receive from looking on that face, which had been to her the beloved dream, the haunting vision of her youth.
Was it come to this. Had absence changed her heart? Had it become strange, untrue, towards her early love? Did she turn her eyes away from her lover's face because his cheek was haggard, his brow sunken, and his eye lost the brightness of those days when
"The sunshine of her life was in those eyes."
Ah, no! she felt that this was not the case. Had she but read signs of grief, of sickness, written there, and her heart would have gone forth to soothe and sympathize with all the truth and fervour of the past.