CHAPTER XVII.
Thou, my once loved, valued friend!
By Heavens thou liest; the man so called my friend
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant:
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely;
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heart;
But thou, a wretched, base, false, worthless coward.
* * * * *
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee,
Pr'thee avoid, no longer cling thou round me,
Like something baneful, that my nature's chilled at.
VENICE PRESERVED.
It was as may be supposed, a trying ordeal for poor Mary, her arrival at Silverton. The circumstances attendant on her last arrival, then hopeful, trustful, happy; for what appeared the light fears and imaginary evils which then oppressed her, contrasted with her feelings and circumstances now? The thousand recollections the sight of the place recalled, everything, caused her heart to sink and sicken within her.
With trembling limbs she alighted from the carriage, and in answer to her inquiries for Mrs. de Burgh, was ushered by the servant into the drawing-room.
A gentleman stood leaning his elbow against the marble mantle-piece. The door closed upon her, and she found herself alone with Eugene Trevor. Surprise, distress, displeasure, were alternately displayed on Mary's countenance; and withdrawing the hand which, having hurried forward to meet her, he had seized passionately in his own, she faltered forth in accents choked by indignant emotion:
"I did not expect this; Olivia promised—or I should never have come."
"It was not Olivia's fault, the blame is entirely mine, Mary. But, ... is it really come to this? can you look around; can you remember all that passed between us in this room; nay, what happened on this very spot—here where our vows of love were plighted?"
"I do remember," she replied in accents low and mournful, and leaning in trembling agitation against the very chair on which on that occasion she had been seated.