Eugene Trevor accordingly mounted his beautiful horse, all fierce and fiery for the want of exercise, and rode fast to Silverton without scarcely once slackening his steed's pace. Just as he approached the mansion, he raised his eyes to a chamber window above. Strange to say, he never drew near the house without being moved with a pang smiting at his heart, fraught with more or less of regretful recollections; for he could not but remember whose gentle eyes had so often watched for him there.
But to-day, a darker and more determined spirit spoke in the upward "flash of that dilating eye," as his horse's hoofs clattered over the stony approach.
Mrs. de Burgh only, he heard to his satisfaction was at home, and she was confined to her dressing-room with a sprained ankle, but no doubt would see Mr. Trevor—a supposition in which the servant was quite correct.
Mrs. de Burgh was only too delighted to have the tediousness of her confinement thus broken in upon, particularly as she was hoping to hear all about Marryott's death, and the strange circumstances connected with the forged notes of which only vague and contradictory reports had reached her ear.
Having, therefore, first accounted for her accident, and giving vent to some complaining strictures on Louis's unfeeling conduct in leaving her alone; whilst he went visiting and amusing himself in Scotland, making it indeed appear an act very unconjugal and unkind, till it came out that Mr. de Burgh's departure had taken place before her accident; and that she had in her fretful pique never written to inform her husband of what had occurred.
After this the fair lady began to question her cousin concerning the late events at Montrevor, and Eugene Trevor to satisfy her curiosity as far, and in the manner he deemed most expedient.
"So you see, Olivia," he added, "altogether I have had a pretty time of it lately, what with one thing and another, and have been terribly put out."
"Well, I thought there was something the matter, as you had quite deserted Silverton."
"Plenty the matter; but there was one subject I came on purpose to speak to you about to-day; you were always my friend in need, Olivia, and I want to consult you—I mean about Mary Seaham."
"Oh, indeed!" replied the lady, with a suppressed yawn, and a tone in which the words "that weary old subject" seemed expressed; for there is nothing which in the end so much wears out the sympathy and interest of one's friends, however much excited they may have been in the beginning, as a protracted love affair.