MARY SEAHAM,

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. GREY,

AUTHOR OF "THE GAMBLER'S WIFE," &c. &c.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
COLBURN AND CO., PUBLISHERS,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1852.

Notice is hereby given that the Publishers of this work
reserve to themselves the right of publishing a Translation in France.

LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

MARY SEAHAM.

CHAPTER I.

Then close and closer, clinging to his side,
Frank as the child, and tender as the bride,
Words, looks, and tears themselves combine the balm,
Lull the fierce pang, and steal the soul to calm!

THE NEW TIMON.

Trevor returned. Arthur Seaham entered the house one afternoon, having been out in the grounds with Mr. de Burgh to find Mary and Eugene in the drawing-room together.

The meeting between the intended brothers-in-law was cordial enough to satisfy even Mary's anxious wishes on the occasion, and she was delighted to sit by Eugene's side and hear the two converse together with the ease and fluency of those who have made up their minds to like, and to be liked by the other. Arthur, standing up before the fire, his clear eyes all the while scanning, with a critical interest he attempted not much to disguise, the countenance and expression of his sister's undeniably handsome intended—a scrutiny which, had Mary's love for Eugene been of a less assured and confiding character, might have made her a little nervous for the result, for she knew well her brother Arthur's glance to be a very Ithuriel spear in the way of discernment and discrimination; that although so young and guileless of heart, when compared with many of his age, he was clearer and wiser of head than many of more years and greater worldly experience, and that no outward gloss, no specious disguise could blind or beguile him to bestow admiration or approval where it was not deserved.

As it was, since he had prepared her for his being very critically disposed, she was obliged to rest satisfied, when, the first time they were alone together after this opening interview, Arthur pronounced his decided satisfaction as to the good looks of his intended brother-in-law, but to her more anxious question, of "And you really like him?" he replied; "And I am sure I shall really like him very much when he has proved himself as thoroughly good a husband as I can desire for my dear Mary."

She laughed, and told him he was very cautious, but she must make allowances, poor fellow! for she still believed him to be a little bit jealous; an imputation well founded or not, as it might be, Arthur did not attempt to contradict; and perhaps—particularly as time went on, and day after day he saw more plainly in how strong a manner was his sister's heart enthralled by this her new affection—how hopelessly the stream of former interests, former feeling had turned into this new-formed channel. How, though he had found her sisterly love still unimpaired, it could now form but a tributary stream to the full abounding river which had arisen to engulph her heart; nay, more, experiencing how He, the once chief object of her affection, had become as nothing in comparison with the exalted place he had before held in her regard, how in her lover's presence he must feel himself as nothing, or even de trop—and in his absence but the temporary substitute, ill able to divert the yearning sigh, the longing look, the anxious thought for the beloved one's return.

No wonder if the young man did experience, as many are compelled to suffer under similar circumstances, a sensation slightly analogous to the one of which his sister had playfully accused him—and therefore was compelled to be still more watchful over himself, lest such sentiment might in any degree interfere with the just and unprejudiced estimate he desired to take of Eugene Trevor's merits.

"'Tis difficult to see another,
A passing stranger of a day,
Who never hath been friend or brother,
Pluck with a look her heart away;
'Tis difficult at once to crush
The rebel murmur in the breast,
To press the heart to earth, and hush
Its bitter jealousy to rest,
And difficult—the eye gets dim,
The lip wants power to smile on Him."

But on one point Arthur Seaham soon became fully satisfied, and much did it tend to overcome any invidious promptings of the heart against his future brother; for the young man's love towards his sister was in the main most essentially unselfish. Day by day showed him only more surely, not only how she loved Eugene—but the ardour and devotion with which she was also beloved by him.

It was impossible to be daily and hourly the witness of their intercourse—to watch the anxiety with which he regarded her every motion; the earnest attention with which he hung upon her every word—the adoring affection with which he gazed upon her sweet expressive countenance, and not be assured that his love was, for the present at least, deep, earnest and sincere?

And was not this enough to disarm the brother of all present criticism, and divert the more close and jealous inquiry which must come hereafter. To continue in the words of that favourite poet, from which we find ourselves so often quoting, as coming so naturally and gracefully to our aid in description of the present case.

"I never spoke of wealth or race
To one who asked so much from me;
I looked but in my sister's face,
And mused if she would happier be;
And I began to watch his mood,
And feel with him love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he wooed
That loving girl so fond and fair."

And Trevor—he was able with perfect sincerity and unreserve to satisfy Mary's mind as to his unfeigned admiration and approval of her darling brother. There was no jealousy to interfere here, on his part.

Jealousy? Ah! the most prone to such infirmity, could with difficulty have conjured up the shadow of an excuse for similar weakness in his case. Had he not won over—secured to himself as much, quite as much exclusive love as he could either desire or deserve? Besides, we have by this time perceived that Trevor was by no means a man unable to appreciate the good and beautiful in mind and character; and how much of these were to be found in his young brother-in-law elect! He entered with the most kindly interest into his plans and prospects for the future, and often as he watched Arthur Seaham's countenance—as to all professing any interest in the matter, he with open-hearted animation discoursed, or laid before them his views or intentions connected with his future career—the half regretful, half admiring gaze with which Eugene Trevor regarded the young man, might have seemed to express the question to be rising in his mind, as to when he could remember to have been so young, so pure, so fresh, so open, happy-hearted.

When indeed?

Perhaps never, Eugene Trevor; for there are minds, in which—like the fruits and flowers of foreign climes, matured by the sunshine of an hour—passions, tastes, principles, incompatible with youth and purity and openness of heart, have either, by nature or the foreign sun of circumstances, struck their roots and flourished in the very morning of their possessors' lives, and thus, their very youth has been like age.

Once Arthur Seaham rode over to Montrevor with Eugene Trevor. He came back in high spirits, pleased with the place, and amused with the expedition altogether.

"You will have a fine old home, Mary," he said, "some of these days, for Trevor tells me everything will be altered, whenever the house is his, and that during his father's lifetime, he does not suppose you and he will be a great deal there, but live in London, and other places, which perhaps is as well, considering it might be rather a gloomy home for a permanence if matters continued as they now are; what with the dear old close father, and that fine-lady housekeeper, from whom I received a very cynical glance, as I stumbled upon her in the passage, and who holds, it seems, such a tight hand over her master and his establishment. But I don't object to the old gentleman himself, either. No! he is a rare old Solomon, and was very civil and flattering to me, with reference to his approval of his son's choice of such a modest, discreet, well-behaved young lady, for my sister. He even was so kind as to make amends for a very indifferent luncheon—(Trevor was obliged to give me on the sly) by presenting me at parting with an excellent piece of advice. His son had begun enlightening him as to my intention of entering upon the profession of the law, for the purpose of making money, which I saw at once raised me immeasurably in his estimation, and leading me aside when we were about to start, with so mysterious and important an expression, that I began to imagine that the jolly old fellow was going to present me with five hundred pounds on the spot, he whispered anxiously in my ears, as if my very life depended on what he was about to say:

"'That's right, young Sir, that's right—make money—make it as long and as much as you can. Make money—make money—and then,' with a very expressive and emphatic pause, 'and then—keep it.'"

Mary could not help laughing at her brother's ludicrous description, though she told him he was an impertinent boy, thus to deride the foibles of her venerable father-in-law. As to anything in his character—or even aught with reference to Marryott, as at all affecting her happiness at Montrevor—seemed to cast no shade of anxiety over her mind. On this point she was as uncareful and unforeseeing as became those traits in her general character we have before remarked.

"By the bye," exclaimed her brother, either à-propos to reflections to which his late visits at Montrevor had given rise, or with reference to hints Mr. de Burgh had once or twice let fall upon the subject, "by the bye, I want to ask you what has become of Trevor's unfortunate brother?"

Mary was unable to give the required information.

"The fact is," she said, "the idea is one so very painful, even to me, that I never bring a subject forward which must undoubtedly be one doubly distasteful and distressing to Eugene. He never broaches it himself—I will, however, ask him the question whenever I may have the opportunity. It might be a comfort to him if I once broke the ice and conversed with him sometimes on the subject."

It was therefore in consequence of this kindly intentioned resolve, that one day when walking alone with Eugene through the park home from church, he—talking in a more confidential tone than was his usual wont, on matters connected with his family affairs, and affecting their future prospects—she placed her hand on his, and with the gentlest, tenderest sympathy in her tone and manner, murmured, "And where, Eugene, is your poor brother?" But she repented ere the words had passed her lips; for Eugene perceptibly started, and paused abruptly for a single moment, turning a wild, quick glance upon her, whilst though he answered but by the single word "Abroad!" it was enough to show that his voice was thick and husky as he thus replied. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover himself from the very great shock her abrupt, and as she feared, ill-judged question had occasioned him, and passing his hand across his brow, quickly pursued his way.

Grieved at what she had done, Mary walked on in silence; till Eugene, as if he feared she must have been impressed by the signs of emotion into which he had been surprised, suddenly began to laugh, although the laugh had in it a tone constrained and unnatural.

"I fear, Mary, I frightened you just now," he said, "but the fact is, you rather frightened me by your sudden question. It sounded almost as solemn and startling as the same inquiry must have done to Cain after—after you know what wicked deed."

"Indeed, dear Eugene?" Mary answered with concern, yet inwardly surprised at the careless tone and manner her lover had now assumed with reference to that distressing subject.

"I am sorry, very sorry, I pained you by my abruptness, but the sad subject was so much in my thoughts at the moment, and I had so long wished to ask you something about your poor brother, that—"

"Oh yes—of course—certainly, my dearest Mary, I quite understand, and shall be very glad to give you some information concerning the poor fellow. Just at the first start you must suppose it rather painful to bring myself to think or speak upon, as you justly observe, so very sad a subject. My poor brother is, as I said before, abroad, travelling I believe—of course under guardianship. He was," and his voice faltered as if from strong emotion, "he was in confinement for a very short time, but that, thank God! was found unnecessary; and now, as I told you, he is abroad. I cannot say exactly where just now."

And having hurriedly uttered these particulars, the delivery of which seemed to cost him much, he passed his handkerchief over his brow, on which, even in this clear fresh November atmosphere, there had been wrung forth some burning drops—and hastened on his pale and pitying companion, who gently pressed his arm in silent token of her love and sympathy.

"Mary," he murmured in a low agitated tone, fervently returning that mute acknowledgment, "Mary, you will never forsake me?"

"Forsake you, Eugene! why should I forsake you?"

"Not even if they told you I was unworthy of you—if they tried to separate us by lies and false inventions?"

"Dear—dear, Eugene, what can make you talk thus?—forsake you! never: even if they were so wicked. Why even if you were really what they represented—"

"What—what? you would not forsake me then?"

"Cain's wife forsook not her husband, and yet his crime was greater than anything you could ever have committed," she answered in a gentle, cheerful voice.

"True—true—true," hurriedly he replied, (but why had he been fool enough to put Cain into her head?)—"True, dear Mary, you are an angel, but then Cain's faithful friend was his wife. I meant, if before we were married, they tried to separate us by such measures,—or if for instance," he added quite cheerfully and naturally, "if, as you quite seem to think possible, I am sorry to perceive, I did turn out a villain."

"Then," Mary answered firmly and gravely, "the course of conduct I must pursue would be a question of right and wrong; it is difficult for me indeed, to realize to myself such a position of affairs; but I know—I feel," with a self-accusing sigh, "what my heart would at present dictate—that I could never of my own accord forsake you, Eugene—never could cancel the engagement which binds us to each other—unless indeed," she added, "you, Eugene, should desire it."

"I desire, it!" he repeated with a laugh of tender scorn, "what in the world could now arise to render our separation, for a day even, desirable in my eyes? No, the time will soon be here when, you know, Mary, what you have promised—that we shall never again be obliged to part."

Strange—strange world of contradiction; strange indeed, that in so very brief a space of time the same enthusiastic speaker should be the first—

But we must not anticipate.

CHAPTER II.

The nuptial day was fix'd, the plighting kiss
Glowed on my lips; that moment the abyss,
Which hid by moss-grown time yet yawned as wide
Beneath my feet, divorced me from her side.
A letter came—

THE NEW TIMON.

"There is a tide in the affairs of man," and Mary's we have seen, from the time of her first arrival at Silverton, has seemed to run on to the full, with a most uninterrupted flow of smooth prosperity most alarming.

It was quite the latter end of November that the first break in the party assembled at Silverton was occasioned by the departure of Arthur Seaham for Scotland, where he went for the purpose both of seeing his sister Alice, and arranging several matters of business, and at the same time to consult his brother-in-law, Mr. Gillespie, whose opinion and legal experience he held in high estimation, concerning the measures to be adopted with reference to his intended professional studies.

By Christmas, however, Arthur would be in London, and there again meet Mary, who in less than ten days from his departure was to accompany the de Burgh's to town, Trevor also proceeding thither.

Mrs. de Burgh had persuaded her husband that it was quite indispensable for her well-doing that her confinement—expected in January—should occur under the auspices of a celebrated London practitioner, and Mr. de Burgh, very persuadable on this anxious point, had taken a house for the occasion.

"And then of course," Mrs. de Burgh resumed complacently, "we shall remain for the season. I shall then be able to look out for a nursery governess for the children, and be in town for your wedding, dear Mary, all quite comfortably."

Mary, nevertheless, was not to continue the guest of her cousins in Brook Street, though they expressed their willingness to accommodate her therein; she preferred, all things considered, to avail herself of the invitation of her former guardians, the uncle and aunt Majoribanks, to visit them in their roomy mansion in Portman Square.

Trevor was anxious that his marriage should take place, if possible, very early in the spring, and the preliminaries necessary to that event were to be set on foot immediately after the assemblage of the aforesaid parties in town; whilst to thicken the plot, and to render the aspect of coming events still more couleur de rose in the eyes of the happy fiancée, the morning before Arthur's arrival, Mary received a letter from her sister Agnes, announcing—along with many delighted and affectionate congratulations from the late bride on the event, which was to render her dear Mary, she hoped, as happy as herself in her new estate—the joyful news of her intended return to England in time to take upon herself the management and superintendance of her sister's wedding; for kind Sir Hugh insisted that it should be his part to give the wedding breakfast, at the best house he could take for the occasion; whilst at the same time, it seems the worthy baronet and his young wife had gone so far as to decide that the intended couple could do no better than repair to the baronet's seat in Wales after the happy event for, their honeymoon, Glan Pennant being now let to strangers.

Poor Mary! she had been taking a long and delightful ride with her lover the day after Arthur left Silverton. There had been no shadow, no cloud, cast upon the calm, confiding transport of her heart, as they discussed together their happy prospects—the episode of that Sunday walk had never been in the slightest degree renewed, nay, seemed as if by either party quite forgotten.

Trevor was more gay, more gentle, more tender this day than she had ever seen him; and when he lifted her from her horse at the door at Silverton, and as he did so, caught the faintest sound of a gentle, breeze-like sigh heaved from her bosom, he, with an anxious solicitude which made Mary smile, looked into her face, and asked quite fearfully, "why she so sighed?"

"I do not know, indeed, dear Eugene," was the reply, "unless it be that I am too happy."

The following morning, Mary and the de Burghs were assembled at the breakfast-table, the children present as usual, but Eugene had not yet made his appearance; his letters, or rather his letter, for there was but one this day, lay as usual by his plate on the table.

"Louey, put that letter down; have I not told you a hundred times, not to pull about other people's things?" called out Mr. de Burgh to his young daughter, whose meddling little fingers seemed irresistibly attracted by the red seal upon this unopened document, as well as by the endeavour to test her literary powers by deciphering the printed letters composing the post mark.

"Louey, pray do as you are told, and do not make your papa so cross and fidgetty," her mother rejoined.

"Just like the rest of her sex," remarked Mr. de Burgh, sarcastically, "always fond of prying and peeping. I have little doubt, but that if I were not here, the seal and direction would be carefully inspected by more than one pair of ladies' eyes—eh, Mary?"

Mary with playful indignation denied the insinuation, whilst Mrs. de Burgh was exclaiming contemptuously, that he always had such bad, absurd ideas, when the discussion was terminated by the entrance of the unconscious object of the conversation, who after having finished his morning greeting, proceeded to seat himself at the table, and seeing his letter, took it up, glanced at the direction and broke the seal, while Louey, who after her last received reproof, had slid round to Mary's chair, convicted and ashamed; with her large dark eyes watched this proceeding on Eugene's part with the most attentive interest.

The first cover was thrown aside—another sealed letter was enclosed—at that direction he also looked, and even the child, had she watched his countenance instead of his fingers, might have been struck by its immediate change; the deep flush succeeded by the deadly pallor which overspread his face. He gave a quick uneasy glance around, but no one was observing him, and then again fixing his eyes anxiously upon the address, was about to turn and break the seal, when his elbow was touched, and the little girl who had glided round to possess herself of her former object of ambition—the seal on the discarded envelope—now whispered in his ear:

"Don't break that beautiful seal—give it to me."

Trevor started, and looked at first as much confused and disconcerted, as if he had been required by the young lady to yield the letter itself for public inspection; but recovering himself in a moment, he, as if mechanically, obeyed the child's injunction, tearing off the impression; and thus recovering her prize, together with another polite request, from her father, not to be such a tiresome bore, she returned with it to her former refuge, laying it before Mary for her particular inspection, who glancing carelessly towards the impression, perceived it to be the Trevor coat-of-arms, together with the initials "E. T."

Eugene in the meantime having hastily glanced his eye over the writing inside, thrust the letter into his pocket, and proceeded to make a hasty but indifferent breakfast.

He did not join the ladies as usual during the few first hours of that morning—but Mr. de Burgh informed them in answer to their inquiry, when he came once into the drawing-room, that "Trevor was sitting in the library, deep in meditation over the 'Times.'" At last he made his appearance for a short time, and sat down by Mary's side, but in so very abstracted and absent a mood, that she began to be possessed with secret misgivings that something had occurred to annoy him, though she kept this feeling to herself.

Mrs. de Burgh's quick perception also discovered that something was indeed amiss, and she playfully told Eugene that he was very stupid, and must take another ride with Mary after luncheon to brisk him up.

But looking down on the ground, in the same altered moody manner which characterized his present demeanour, he murmured that he was afraid he should be obliged to leave Silverton early in the afternoon.

Mrs. de Burgh, on hearing this, and struck still more by his peculiar manner, glanced inquiringly at her cousin, and was preparing to rise in order to leave him alone with Mary, when Eugene suddenly got up from his chair, and, making some excuse for absenting himself, quitted the apartment.

Mary made no remark on this demeanour of her lover, but silently and quietly pursued her occupation. It was not in her nature, as we before remarked, to fret or torment herself, or others, by easily excited fears, or fanciful misgivings. She was fearful, indeed, that Eugene was suffering under some temporary anxiety or annoyance, occasioned, perhaps, by the letter he had received that morning; but nothing more serious entered her imagination.

Eugene did not come in to luncheon, but of that meal he seldom partook, and when once, through the open door, Mary caught sight of him standing darkly in an adjoining room, his eyes fixed earnestly upon her, she smiled her own sweet, affectionate, confiding smile, which he returned with a kind of subdued, melancholy tenderness. She found herself at length in the drawing-room alone, and heard Eugene's step slowly approaching. He half opened the door, and seeing that no one was with her, entered the apartment. She held out her hand as he drew near, and seizing it, he pressed it passionately to his lips.

"Mary," he murmured, in a low, thrilling tone, whilst he gazed long and earnestly into her face, till her soft eyes shrank, like flowers at noon, beneath the dark, wild gleam which shone upon them. "My dear, good, best-beloved Mary," then his arm encircled her waist, he pressed her trembling form against his heart, imprinted a burning kiss upon her lips, and ere Mary had recovered from the first strong surprise with which this sudden ardour in her lover's conduct naturally inspired her, he had left the room, and Mrs. de Burgh entering soon after to ask her to drive, she heard that Eugene was gone!

CHAPTER III.

Still must fate, stern, cold, reproving,
Link but to divide the heart——
Must it teach the young and loving
First to prize and then to part.

L. E. L.

The second day after Eugene Trevor's departure, Mary received a letter from him, short, hurried, though affectionate, and mentioning that some troublesome and rather annoying business obliged him to leave Montrevor. He did not say for how long, or where he was going, but Mary sent her letter, in answer, directed to Montrevor.

She did not hear from him again.

There wanted but two days to the one fixed for the journey to London. The preparations necessarily preceding the removal, as well as her naturally patient and tranquil disposition, had hitherto prevented Mary from dwelling too uneasily on her lover's silence. After all, it had only been for a few days, and she knew him to be naturally no great letter-writer. The tiresome business which had taken him from home probably engaged much of his time and attention, and he was anxious to have it over before they met again.

But when, on coming down to breakfast the morning of the above-mentioned day, her anxious glance for the wished for letter was again disappointed, she could not forbear giving vent to the anxious exclamation, "No letter again from Eugene!"

She glanced as she spoke towards her cousin Louis, and perceived his regard fixed upon her, with so anxious, so grave an expression of concern, that her heart instantly misgave her, though she said nothing more at the time.

Mrs. de Burgh entered the breakfast-room soon after, looking quite unconscious, merely inquiring of Mary what news the post had brought; and only remarked that Eugene was a very idle fellow, when Mary's dejected silence bespoke her to have been disappointed in the results of its delivery; immediately after breakfast Mary heard Mr. de Burgh say, "Olivia, I wish to speak to you in the library," an unusual occurrence, unless there was anything of very especial consequence to be communicated, and then she heard the door shut upon them.

She waited half an hour in a state of anxious suspense, which in vain she strove to reason with herself was unnecessary and uncalled for. What had this interview to do with her—with Eugene? But no—it would not do; her heart still beat nervously in her bosom, and she strained her ears at every sound, to listen whether it might not be the opening of the library door, and her cousin's appearance, to reassure her, no doubt, silly apprehension.

Mary was reminded by all this of her feelings on the occasion of her anticipated interview with Louis, after his having been informed of her engagement with Eugene, and the step she had taken to put an end to the nervous impulse under which she then had laboured.

No doubt she would find her intrusion on this occasion perfectly uncalled for; but still her presence was never unwelcome, and to relieve her mind of its present uneasiness, she could at that moment have braved any contingency.

So to the library she proceeded, opened the door, and entered.

"But what is the use of telling her anything about it, poor thing! till she gets to London? For Heaven's sake, wait till then."

This was what she heard; and if there had been any doubt on Mary's mind, as to whether these words bore reference to herself, the confused and disconcerted countenances of both Mr. and Mrs. de Burgh, when they became aware of her presence, too fully assured her on that point; and advancing, pale and trembling, towards her cousins, she at once faltered forth:

"Louis—Olivia! have you heard anything of Eugene? Is he ill? or what has happened?" and then she burst into tears.

"No, no, dear Mary, there is nothing the matter with Trevor—he is quite well."

Mr. de Burgh hastened to confirm this, and in the gentlest, kindest manner made her sit down by his side.

"The fact is," he said, "I have had a letter from him this morning, which may possibly damp your spirits a little for the moment, although it can, of course, be of no ultimate importance, only defer expected happiness to a remoter period."

Mary, drying her eyes, anxiously waited for him to proceed.

"Trevor writes me word that his marriage, owing, it seems, to some rather serious business, must of necessity be postponed, he does not say till when. But you see," he continued, breaking off into a more cheerful and encouraging tone of voice, "there is nothing so fatally unfortunate in this."

No, indeed, it was not the bare fact those words conveyed which bowed down Mary's trembling spirit, and gave such wan and wintry sadness to the smile with which she attempted to acknowledge her cousin's comforting words. It was not the mere intelligence that her marriage was postponed which fell like a cloud upon her soul, it was that dark presentiment which often on occasions of less or greater magnitude assails the mind of man, that the happy prosperity of his life has reached its culminating point: that the point is turned, and henceforth it must take a downward course.

"But why," she faltered, now glancing towards Mrs. de Burgh, who sat silent and distressed, "why did he not write and tell me this himself?"

"I think, dear Mary, Louis had better tell you what Eugene said in his letter, which was to him, not to me. I will come back presently," and rising, Mrs. de Burgh kissed Mary's pale cheek, and gladly made her escape from the thing she particularly dreaded—painful circumstances over which she could have no control; so Mary once more turned her plaintive glance of inquiry upon her cousin Louis.

"Here is his letter!" Mr. de Burgh replied; "if you would like to read it, it may be as well that you should do so, as it is all I know, or understand about the matter."

Mary took the letter in her trembling hand, and steadying it as she could—read in her lover's hand-writing the following communication, which, from the concise, unvarnished manner in which it was conveyed, led one rather to suspect that it had never been intended for the eye of his tender-hearted lady-love, but, with the well-known proverb respecting "fine words," &c. uppermost in his mind—penned rather for the private benefit of one of his own strong-minded species.

"Dear de Burgh,

"You will, I am sure, be surprised, when I tell you that circumstances have lately arisen which render it impossible that my marriage can take place as soon as I had hoped and expected. I need not tell you that my distress and vexation are extreme, the more so, that I am forced to be convinced of the expediency, nay, necessity of this postponement, finding it quite impossible, under the present position of affairs, that with any justice to Mary, our union could be concluded. Of course more particular explanation will be required; but I write this merely to beg that either you or Olivia will break to her this intelligence, of which I feel it right she should not be kept in ignorance, I am myself quite unequal to communicate with her upon the subject. Tell her only that I am concerned and disappointed beyond expression, that I will write to her brother more fully, or to any of her friends who may desire it; but that I cannot, dare not, trust myself to put pen to paper to address her till I can see my way more clearly.

"Believe me, ever, dear de Burgh,
"Yours most sincerely,
"Eugene Trevor."

A large tear rolled down Mary's cheek as she refolded and laid aside the letter.

"Poor Eugene!" she murmured gently, "how unhappy he seems to be! You will write to him, Louis; will you not?" she added: "If so, do tell him I am grieved, disappointed, for his sake, but that he must not distress and harass himself on my account—that he must be patient till these obstacles are removed. Our happiness has, till now, been too great and uninterrupted for us to have expected that it could continue without any thing to rise and mar the smoothness of its course; we shall only prize it the more when it is restored, and love each other the more firmly for this little reverse."

"Had you not better perhaps write and tell him all this yourself?" said Mr. de Burgh, with a smile of kind and gentle interest.

"I think perhaps I had better not," she answered sadly. "You see he does not like to write to me upon the subject, so perhaps it would distress him the more to hear from me just now. I know it is a peculiarity in Eugene to shrink from the direct discussion of any circumstance painful and annoying to his feelings. Tell him therefore, also—if you, Louis, will be so kind as to write—not to think it necessary to enter into any particulars at present, with my brother, or any one else. It is quite bad enough for him to be troubled by these affairs, without further annoyance being added to the business. I am quite satisfied with what he has imparted—quite satisfied as to the expediency and necessity of our marriage being deferred—that I can wait, and shall be content patiently to wait, as long as it shall be required."

Yes, Mary, wait—wait—learn patiently to wait—it is woman's lesson, which, sooner or later, your sex must learn, and of which your meek soul will have but too full experience! The cup of joy so temptingly presented "to lips that may not drain," but instead—the sickening hope deferred—the long heart thirst—yet still to patiently hold on, awaiting meekly her lingering reward. "Bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things."

The few last days previous to a departure, is under any circumstances, generally a somewhat uncomfortable and unsettled period. Our Silverton party were doubly relieved by its expiration. Eugene's letter seemed to have cast a damp over their general spirits.

Mrs. de Burgh, evidently puzzled and perplexed, was at a loss how to treat the subject, when discussing it with Mary; whilst Louis, far from seeming elated at this hitch in an affair of which he had always professed such unqualified disapprobation, was evidently sorry and annoyed at this disturbance of his cousin's peace of mind, and whilst more than ever, kind and affectionate in his demeanour towards herself, was unusually out of humour with every one around him.

As for Mary, she walked about more like a person half awakening from a long and happy dream, who feels herself struggling hard not to break the pleasant spell. It seemed to her, that there was a dull and silent vacuum reigning over the large mansion, she had never before perceived. She looked wearily from the window upon the dreary December scene, and it seemed that almost for the first time she became aware that it was not the bright summer month which had marked her first arrival. She felt that now, she also would be glad to go.

What! glad to leave the spot where, who knows poor Mary, but that the brief bright summer time of your existence has passed and gone? For there is a summer time in the life of every mortal being—a more or less bright, passionate ecstatic season of enjoyment, though wofully—fearfully evanescent are the flowers and leaves which mark some mortals' summer time.

But why lament for this—if, may be, the autumn with its calm cool chastened light be longer thine?

The morning of departure arrived—and pale and passive in the midst of all the bustle and excitement attendant on the starting of a large family party, composed of servants, children, a lady suffering from the nervous and uncomfortable feelings attendant on her situation, and a rather fidgetty, impatient husband—pale and passive, yet with an inwardly bruised and sinking sensation of the heart, Mary entered the carriage, and was soon borne far away from the vicinity of Silverton and Montrevor.

CHAPTER IV.

Oh, thou dark and gloomy city!
Let me turn my eyes from thee;
Sorrow, sympathy nor pity,
In thy presence seems to be;
Darkness like a pall hath bound thee—
Shadow of thy world within—
With thy drear revealings round me,
Love seems vain, and hope a sin.

L. E. L.

Mary on her arrival in London, went straight to Portman Square, where she was received with affectionate gladness by her venerable relations.

They, of course, had been amongst the first to be made aware of their niece's matrimonial prospects, and proud and happy did the intelligence render the worthy pair. Full and hearty were the congratulations poured upon the pale and drooping fiancée,—to be silenced for the time by the dejected answer:

"Yes, dear aunt, but for the present our marriage is postponed."

After this first ordeal, there was something not ungenial to Mary's state of mind in the orderly and quiet monotony of the old-fashioned, yet comfortable establishment of the Majoribanks. Their daughter was remarkable for nothing but that indolence of habit and disposition which a long sojourn in the luxurious East often engenders, and made little more impression upon Mary's mind, than the costly shawls in which the orientalized lady at rare intervals appeared enveloped; whilst some little creatures, chattering in an outlandish tongue, and attended by a dark-hued ayah, only occasionally excited her present vague, languid powers of interest and attention.

London in December bears by no means an inviting and exhilarating aspect; still there are moods and conditions of minds with which at this season it better assimilates than in its more bright and genial periods. No glare, or glitter, or display then distracts our spirits. Over the vast city and its ever-moving myriads, seems to hang one dark, thick, impenetrable veil, beneath whose dingy folds, joy and misery, innocence and crime, indigence and wealth, alike hurry on their way, undistinguishable and indistinct. Men are to our eyes "as trees walking,"—by faint, uncertain glimpses we alone recognise the face of friend or foe, who see us not—or, in our turn, are seen, by those we unconsciously pass by.

Then, and there, in the "dark grey city," more than in "the green stillness of the country," we can retire into the sanctuary of our own sad hearts—or beneath this vague and dreamy influence the poet's heart may wander undisturbed, and as he "hears and feels the throbbing heart of man," may calmly image forth his destined theme for thought, or song. "The river of life that flows through streets, tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity;—the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy, and suffering brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this, and be a part of this, acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men."

Poor Mary! she too went forth, and walked, or drove, as beneath one dim, broad shadow; everything without her and within, vague, dreamy, and indistinct, except when some pale face or dark eye startled her momentarily from her trance, by their fancied or seeming similitude to that loved being, whom some suddenly eclipsing power, like the one now veiling the wintry sun, had hidden from her aching sight,—but of whom, each day, she lived in sure but anxious anticipation of receiving tidings either in person or by letter.

Mary had not written to her brother Arthur on the subject of Eugene's letter till she came to London, then so lightly did she touch upon the matter it contained, giving her brother merely to understand that her marriage was deferred for a short period; that he only in his reply expressed pleasure at the idea that he was not to lose her quite so soon, and at the same time mentioned his intention of remaining in Edinburgh a little longer than he had previously intended, according to the urgent solicitations of his sister Alice, who had so few opportunities of enjoying the society of her relations—and at the same time, for the more interested purpose of reaping as long as he was able the benefit of his lawyer brother-in-laws' valuable counsel and assistance on the subject upon which his mind was so keenly set; affording so excellent a preparation for those regular studies, in which, after the Christmas vacation, he was to engage as member of the Middle Temple.

And thus the affectionate brother remained in perfect ignorance that anything was amiss in the concerns of his favourite sister, during this protracted absence. But the old couple of course soon began to require some more defined explanation as to the state of affairs, and an interview with Mr. de Burgh, when he called one morning to see Mary, did not tend to throw any very satisfactory light upon the subject. All that he could inform them concerning the matter was, that some business was pending, which would prevent the marriage from taking place as soon as had been intended; that Mrs. de Burgh had heard from her cousin, Mr. Trevor, who seemed to be considerably distressed by this impediment, and to shrink from holding any direct communion with his betrothed until matters had assumed a more favourable aspect; that he announced his intention of coming up to town as soon as he could possibly leave his father, who was suffering from another dangerous attack of illness. Until such time he, Mr. de Burgh, supposed there was nothing to be done, particularly as Mary's own solicitations were most urgent to that effect; and she, indeed, poor girl, always professed herself perfectly satisfied that all was right.

Ah, how could it be otherwise? the bare idea was treason to her confiding, trustful heart.

Mary did not see a great deal of Mrs. de Burgh after her first arrival.

It is astonishing how great a barrier a few streets and squares of the metropolis can form against the intercourse of dearest and most familiar friends. Mrs. de Burgh was ill at first and uncomfortable herself, and it only distressed her to see Mary under the present unsatisfactory aspect of affairs. Then her confinement intervened, and after that she was surrounded by other friends, whose society was unassociated with the painful feelings, which by that time had occurred to throw a still greater constraint over her intercourse with the pale, sad Mary.

How characteristic this is of the general friendship of worldly people. How warm, how bright, has been the affection showered upon us when we were gay, glad, or hopeful. But let some cloud arise to dim our aspect, let our spirits droop, our brow be overcast, then, though they may not love us less—though they may feel for and pity us, nay, would do much to restore our happiness, if in their power; yet if that cannot be—then—"come again when less sad and sorrowful, when your lips once more can give back smile for smile—when your voice has lost these notes of deep dejection, then, oh, come again, and we will with open arms receive you, and our love be as fond, as fervent, as unconstrained; but till then—away! you chide our spirits, you restrain our mirth."

This is the language which seems to breathe from every altered look and tone of our worldly friends.

Mary went one day to see her cousin. She found Olivia on the sofa, looking a little delicate, but only the more beautiful from that cause, as well as from the subdued, softened expression of her countenance.

Her husband sat affectionately by her side, the brightest satisfaction beaming from his handsome features, gazing upon his lovely wife, and new-born son, a fine healthy infant, resting on the mother's bosom.

It was altogether a perfect picture of happy family prosperity, and tears of heartfelt pleasure rose to Mary's eyes at the sight.

She wished and prayed that it might be an earnest of the establishment of a happier and better state of things between that married pair; that the long slumbering, or diverted demonstration of affection, now reawakened or recalled, might never again be put to silence, or lose their reasserted power. Alas! for the transitory nature of pure and holy influences like the present, upon the light, inconstant, or the worldly hearted; influences of time, or circumstances, which like the shaken blossoms of the spring, the breath of vanity or dissipation can in a moment dispel and scatter to the ground.

"They never came to fruit, and their sweet lives soon are o'er,
But we lived an hour beneath them, and never dreamed of more."

At least thus we regret to say, it proved with regard to any temporary influence to which Mrs. de Burgh might have been subjected. For her convalescence, and the allurements and temptations of the ensuing season, tended too surely to the overthrow of those hopes and aspirations, in which poor Mary so rejoiced, in behalf of her cousin Louis and his beautiful wife. But this is wandering from the regular progress of our story.

CHAPTER V.

I am not false to thee, yet now
Thou hast a cheerful eye;
With flushing cheek and drooping brow,
I wander mournfully.

Thou art the same; thy looks are gay,
Thy step is light and free,
And yet, with truth, my heart can say,
I am not false to thee.

MRS. NORTON.

Spring was fast advancing. Arthur Seaham had returned some time from Scotland, and had entered as a student of the Temple. The Morgans had arrived in London, yet the cloud seemed only to thicken the more round Mary's prospects.

The friends had ceased to pain her ears by any open animadversion of her lover. They seemed to wait in moody silence the issue of affairs; the dangerous and precarious condition, in which they had ascertained that his father still remained—giving rise, in a great measure, to the idea suggested by a vague hint from the son, that on this circumstance depended the removal of the impediment which he professed had arisen against his marriage—still excusing his non-appearance.

And Mary—though not to hear mention of that beloved name, was to her almost as great an agony, as to know that injurious and suspicious thoughts were silently harboured in the breast of those around her, against that one loved being; and though her cheek day by day was becoming more pale, her heart more sinking—yearning for her lover's exculpation—yet more she still lived hopefully, trustfully, sure that all would eventually be right.

Day by day, she thought "he will be here," sometimes that he might even then be in London, only waiting to make his presence known until his anxious consultations with his lawyers had set his mind more at rest.

Mary was sometimes induced to accept the urgent solicitations of her sister Agnes to accompany herself and Sir Hugh, to such places of public amusement as the yet early season rendered admissible.

Lady Morgan, blooming and happy as ever youthful wife could be; with her indulgent husband, upon whom his continental sojourn, together with the influence of his handsome young spouse, had produced quite a polishing and refining effect, were established in a fashionable hotel, for the short space of time which now, alas! that there was no marriage to be celebrated, they intended—this season—to remain in London.

One night, when on the point of issuing from their private box at one of the minor theatres, where they had been witnessing the performance of a famous actress, a party of men, who had apparently occupied one of the lower boxes on the same side of the house, rushed quickly past, laughing and talking with light and careless glee.

Some glanced slightly on the young Lady Morgan; who happened to stand forward at the time, and whose appearance momentarily attracted their attention; but Mary, without being seen from her position behind her sister, caught sight of the party as they passed.

Why did the beatings of her heart stand still—that sick faint chill creep over her? could it be—oh, could it indeed be Eugene! nearly foremost of that group, whose dark eye had flashed that cursory glance upon her sister, as he hurried by—whose voice, in that well known cheerful laugh (at least so it had ever been to Mary's ears) had echoed on her heart, her anxious, longing, saddened heart?

Oh! could it be—and was it thus she now beheld him—he, whose last embrace still thrilled her frame—whose parting kiss still lingered on her lips—unconscious of her presence, careless, unthinking of her grief.

Yes, thus she first beheld him, for whom she had so long watched and waited,—and wept, when none were near.

"Mary dear, are you there?" her sister said looking back, when they had stepped out into the passage. "But, my dear darling, how pale you look. Sir Hugh," she exclaimed quite reproachfully to her husband, "pray give Mary your arm," and with repentant alacrity the Baronet hastened to offer his assistance to his half-fainting sister-in-law. "It was the heat—the gas," poor Mary murmured; "she would be better when they went into the air."

And she did then seem to revive, and entering the carriage, told not a word of what had occurred to trouble her; nor hinted the fact of having seen Eugene, (if indeed her bewildered fancy had not deceived her), even to her brother, when she saw him on the morrow.

No, still in hope and trust, she waited patiently. The very next night but one after this occurrence, she was again called for by her sister and brother-in-law, to accompany them to the opera, but just re-opened for the season.

Oh! the wistful earnestness of that sad eye, straining its aching sight to discern some inmate of the opposite boxes, of the stalls below, who, for one deceiving moment, made her heart beat fast, by some fancied similitude with the object of her thoughts. But no, the vision of the night before was not to be renewed on this occasion, though of its reality—which at times she was almost inclined to doubt—she was not to leave the house quite unassured.

Mary and her sister were waiting in the round room, expecting the return of Sir Hugh, who had gone to look for the carriage; Lady Morgan, talking to a gentleman with whom she was acquainted, when Mary's attention was rivetted by the colloquy between two men, who had previously passed them in the vestibule, and near whom they again found themselves standing, evidently without the former being aware of their vicinity.

"Oh, yes!" said one, "that was Lady Morgan, the young wife of the rich Sir Hugh, the Welsh baronet, more than twice her age; a fine looking young woman; but did you see that pale, pretty girl who was with them; do you know that she is Miss Seaham, her sister, Eugene Trevor's intended."

"Ah, indeed? I saw Trevor to-day, and congratulated him, but I thought he did not seem much to like the subject."

"No indeed; I hear he is rather trying to back out of the affair. Some spoke in the wheel, I suppose about money matters, and the old father who was thought to be dying, seems to have picked up again."

"Well, I should think there were a few things besides money, which would rather stand in the way," was the reply, and then the speakers lowered their voices as they talked on, and Mary heard—and wished to hear no more.

"Dear Agnes, shall we go on? There is Sir Hugh coming," and Lady Morgan felt a gentle pressure on her fair round arm, and looking back, caught sight once more of her sister's pale and piteous countenance.

"My poor, dear Mary, these places certainly do not suit you," whispered her affectionate young chaperone, as she passed her sister's trembling arm through hers, and pressed onwards through the crowd to meet her husband. "I must really carry you back with me as soon as possible to our mountain breezes."

"Would that I had never left them, Aggy!" murmured poor Mary in low plaintive accents, whilst an uncontrollable flood of tears came to her full heart's relief.

The very next day, Mary set out on one of those expeditions, which at this time might be called her only real enjoyment—namely, her visits to her brother in his chambers at the Temple; often, as was the case on this occasion, to bring him back to dine in Portman Square.

The Majoribanks' chariot, with its fat, slow, sleek horses, and steady attendants, being conceded to her special use this evening; she went forth heavy at heart, but anxiously striving to rally her spirits, to meet her brother with that cheerfulness which in his society she ever strove (and found it less difficult than under other circumstances) to assume. It was rather early to proceed straight to the Temple, and therefore Mary had agreed with her aunt, that she should go first to execute some commissions in the opposite direction.

We can easily imagine from what source alone the interest could spring, with which her sad eyes gazed through the carriage windows, as she passed through some of the streets in this quarter.

Did she not know that somewhere in this vicinity, Eugene always lodged when he came to town. And oh! to be passing perhaps the very door of the house that contained him, was the gasping utterance of her heart, as she swallowed down the tears which struggled upwards at this suggestion.

"But he—he does not care—he can be happy and cheerful without me," was the still more bitter thought which succeeded, as she shrank back in the carriage in dark and tearless dejection.

But from this she is aroused by one of those matter-of-fact realities of common life, which form fortunate and salutary breaks in the tragic, or the romance of man's existence.

The carriage stops before a fancy workshop in Bond Street, where many colours for her aunt's worsted work are to be matched or chosen.

Mary does not herself alight; but gives a few directions to the well initiated footman, who knows perfectly how to give the order—better indeed perhaps than she herself—and sits in patient abstraction till the man's return. He reappears, puts the parcel into the carriage, then draws abruptly back, for some one has touched his arm, and signs that he should give place.

Mary languidly lifts her eyes, and Eugene is before her. The place and circumstance of this meeting, admitted not at first of any very open demonstration of feeling, such as must necessarily have been excited. A few low, hurried, agitated sentences were uttered by Trevor, as he bent forward into the carriage towards Mary, whose pale lips could scarcely articulate incoherent expressions of her sudden joy.

Then, by a peremptory gesture from the gentleman, the servant is commanded to let down the steps. He obeys. Trevor springs in. The door is closed; a moment's whispered consultation, and in faltering tones Mary gives orders to be driven to the Temple, and the carriage rolls off in that direction.

Once more alone together—once more by Eugene's side—Mary sees already the cloud dispersed—fear, doubt, misgiving, vanished from her path.

How comes it, then, that misery and bewilderment is the confused impression which this interview shall afterwards leave upon her mind? How is it, that for the most part of that long way, she sits weeping silently, her cold hand trembling in the burning palm of Eugene?—he now in low, despairing accents bemoaning his grief, his pain—now passionately cursing his wretched fortunes, his fatal circumstances?

But no explanation—no hope—no promised deliverance from the sorrow or the evil.

Once, indeed, in a low and hurried tone, he breathed into her ear the notion of a clandestine marriage—a secret union—one to be kept concealed till such a time as the present necessity for secresy should be at an end; the idea probably suggested to his mind by passing one of those dark, often magnificent, but almost unfrequented churches, so well suited, to all appearance, for the celebration of mysterious rites and secret ceremonies, which rear their heads in some of the close, dark streets of the city. But the firm, though gentle withdrawal of her hand, the look of almost cold astonishment which marked her reception of this desperate proposition, sufficed to convey to Eugene Trevor's mind the full conviction that with all her yielding tenderness, her feminine weakness of disposition, never must he hope to tempt his gentle, pure-hearted love from the right, straight road of principle and duty into any crooked path of deviating, or questionable proceeding.

"No, no, Eugene!" seemed to speak the sadly averted countenance. "No, no, Eugene; the grief, the sin, the shame, whatever it may be, that now stands between us, can never be set aside, be overstepped by such unworthy means as you suggest. I can suffer, I can wait, I can make every other sacrifice for your sake; but I cannot err—I cannot thus deceive."

But suddenly, during the dreary pause that succeeded, Mary's eye recognises some passing object, calling forth a momentary interest in her mind, even in this moment of concentrated absorption of feeling.

She makes a quick forward movement of surprise; but when Eugene looked inquiringly, as if to discern the cause of her apparent interest, the momentary excitement died away, and she answered with melancholy composure:

"It was only that I saw Mr. Temple pass—he of whom, you know, I told you once."

"What—who—Eus—Temple I mean, did you say? Are you certain—quite certain?" he exclaimed, with anxious, eager excitement, far surpassing any which the recognition had excited in her own breast; "are you sure—quite sure that it was he?"

"Yes" with a sigh; "I do not think I could be mistaken, for he looked so earnestly into the carriage; but why—why, Eugene," looking at her lover with a faint, melancholy smile, and some expression of surprise, "why should it thus excite you?"

"My own dear love," Eugene now said, regaining possession of her hand, and trying also to assume a forced smile, as well as tone of careless unconcern, "I was not particularly excited, but you know I cannot help feeling a slight degree of interest in that man after what you told me. And did he see us? you, dearest, I mean?" he continued, still with a degree of anxious solicitude in his tone.

"Yes, I think, I am almost sure, he did," she wearily replied, and then her exhausted feelings sunk her again into a state of hopeless, listless dejection.

And Eugene sat too, for a few minutes, plunged in anxious, thoughtful silence, from which he was aroused by a glance towards the windows, reminding him that they were approaching closely to Mary's destination.

Immediately, with an exclamation of despair, he pulls the check-string and the carriage stops; the servant is at the door. There was but a bewildered hasty parting. Trevor springs out into the street, turns upon Mary one expressive, eager glance, and he is gone! The carriage proceeds a little way, and then rolls within the Temple gates, and Mary is found by her brother, when he comes hurrying down to meet her, pale, trembling, nearly hysterical, from the effects of all her nerves and feelings had undergone.

CHAPTER VI.

Me, the still "London" not the restless "Town"
(The light plume fluttering o'er Cybele's crown,)
Delights;—for there the grave romance hath shed
Its hues, and air grows solemn with the dead.

THE NEW TIMON.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.

LONGFELLOW.

What was the matter?—what had happened?—was Arthur Seaham's anxious inquiry, when having for greater privacy entered the carriage, he had sat a few minutes by Mary's side, tenderly and soothingly holding her hand—till the first paroxysm of emotion, (which to his astonishment and dismay, greeted his first appearance) was in a degree subsided.

A few broken words, threw light upon the matter. She had seen—she had just parted from Eugene. Arthur pressed no further question at the moment, but proposed taking her up-stairs to his chambers, to give her wine to recruit the poor girl's agitated spirits; but this Mary declined. She only wanted air; she felt suffocated by the heat and confinement of the carriage. She would like to get out, and walk home.

But the brother would not agree to this. It would be much too far for her to walk just now. No, the carriage should wait, and they might take a few turns in the court and gardens. The students were all in Hall—they would be quite undisturbed. To the court then they accordingly proceeded, Mary leaning on her brother's arm, and the quiet refreshment of that quaint old spot, upon this mild spring evening; its fresh green grass plot, sparkling fountain and overhanging elms, just then putting forth their early shoots, and between which the venerable walls and buttresses, of the Temple Hall, revealed their sober beauties; the sweet notes of a thrush sounding from the garden below. All these combined, affording as it did, so strong a contrast to the din, stir, and turmoil from without, as well as the bewildering disquiet and agitation through which her mind had lately passed, did not fail to produce its soothing influence on poor Mary's nerves and spirits; and seated upon one of the benches of the court, she was able, with tolerable composure, to unburden the trouble of her heart to that dear, kind brother, till it became almost a soothing relief to dilate upon the distressing, and unsatisfactory nature of the late interview with her lover.

Arthur listened sorrowfully and compassionately to his sister's melancholy relation of the blight, which had fallen on the unalloyed happiness of which he had found her in such full enjoyment on his return to England. He remembered her bright and happy countenance then—and the change it now exhibited, so touched and saddened the young man's feelings at the time, that he only held Mary's hand, and sympathized, soothed, and cheered with words of encouragement—neither expressing blame, anger, or suspicion, against the originating source of all this woe.

But at length when Mary said: "And now, dear Arthur, I want you to assist me, I think something should be done—something ascertained—anything will be better than this miserable state of uncertainty and suspense," he looked up quickly with a sudden, impatient flash from his bright blue eye, and answered:

"Yes indeed, Mary. I think so too, something must, and shall be done."

"But listen to me dear Arthur," she continued mildly. "What I should wish to ascertain would be, whether, under the present circumstances of affairs—whatever they may be—Eugene's engagement to me, involves him in any unforseen trouble or annoyance; for," she added very sadly, "if I thought that were the case—"

"Would you give him up?" her brother quickly rejoined, with something of pleasurable hope lighting up his countenance, as he seized upon the idea suggested.

"Give him up! Oh, cruel words and easily spoken!" Mary averted her head, but with a deep drawn sigh, and forced calmness, continued: "I could never give Eugene up, unless," and again a sorrowful sigh, as she thought upon similar words spoken in a formerly recorded conversation, "unless Eugene himself desired it; or, that I discovered it was necessary or expedient, to his comfort or prosperity that I should do so. If it were really so; or, should it be more for his ease that some definite period, one of any length, or duration, should be agreed upon, for the postponement of our marriage, he need not fancy I should impatiently shrink from such an engagement. And it is this, that I should like to be conveyed to Eugene. I would write—but writing is so very painful, and unsatisfactory, under such circumstances; I can quite enter into poor Eugene's feelings on that point. I would ask you, dear Arthur, to go and speak to him—if," and she looked anxiously into her brother's face, "if I could be quite certain, if I could quite trust you in the matter—if I could be perfectly sure that you would not allow your jealous affection for myself, to outrun your kindness and consideration towards Eugene. Arthur, if you went to him could you promise. Oh, I am sure you will not take from me the stay, and comfort, I can in this emergency feel alone in you—you will promise that no harsh, reproachful, or uncourteous word shall escape your lips, on the subject of my concerns."

"Mary, dear," the young man replied with still somewhat of a knit and moody brow, "I will do anything to serve and please you; but I only want open and straight forward dealings in this affair. It is all this equivocating, tantalizing mystery that I can neither abide or understand. But," he continued, as Mary again droopingly listened to his words, "I am not so selfish as to let any impatient temper of my own, stand in the way of your comfort or gratification; I will do all that you desire. I will go to Trevor, and on this occasion, act and speak, as from your own trusting, loving, self."

Mary's spirit was again calmed and revived by this promise of her brother's, and after a little more anxious conversation on the subject, Arthur Seaham sought further to compose her spirits and divert her mind, before leaving the classic spot in which they found themselves. He conducted her down the Italian descent into the garden with the broad river gliding sluggishly below that parterre, which in the summer months from its trees and flowers, is so deserving of the name, but which a poet's hand has made to bloom with "roses above the real."

He strove also to excite and amuse her intelligent fancy by pointing out, and particularizing some of the principal points and buildings of this ancient and interesting seat of learning, ran over the names of those, who from "the great of old," to more modern, but none the less eminent instances, had either in connection with law, literature, or wit, graced or sanctified its precincts by their presence and abode. And he playfully asserted that, amongst those, he, Arthur Seaham, intended most surely one day to rank.

"Bye the bye, talking of great men, Mary," the young man suddenly exclaimed, "from whom do you think I have had a visit, to-day? From Mr. Temple."

"Indeed!" answered Mary, with no slight display of interest, "then I was right, it really was him who passed us just now."

"Yes, no doubt it was, for he had scarcely left me a quarter of an hour, before you arrived; he is on the eve of leaving England for the continent, and came, I fancy, to carry away the latest intelligence concerning you, Mary; for he made anxious enquiry with regard to your marriage, the report of which, it seems, reached his ears; though it appears he left Wales some months ago, and has since been living, in great seclusion, in some quiet, antiquated nook, in this very neighbourhood. Mary, what can be the history of that man? What a superior being does his countenance, his whole bearing, bespeak him to be, and yet—that some blight has fallen upon his existence, is but too evident. He gives one the idea of some being led forth from a higher sphere,

"'To act some other spirit's destiny,
Not allowed to hit the scope
At which their nature aims—
Who pass away,'"

continued the young man, in the words of the suggested quotation:

"'Having in themselves
A better destiny all unfulfilled,
A holier, milder being, unenvolved!'

"But, dear Mary, he is much altered since I saw him last. He was then like one in whom suffering had been nobly subdued, a holy calm seemed to have settled on his soul, a strength, not his own, to have been vouchsafed him. To-day he looked ill in body, and worn in mind. I cannot but think that since that time he has suffered, and is still suffering, from some newly arisen source of pain, or disquietude; and my dear sister," Arthur added, with a smile of playful accusation, "I cannot help suspecting that you have something to do with the distress, now weighing on the mind of this remarkable, but most mysterious man. The agitation of his voice and manner when he spoke of you, Mary, was not to be concealed."

"Oh, Arthur, do not say so!" Mary exclaimed, with sorrowful earnestness, shrinking from the idea of herself being the cause of sufferings, such as she now so well could understand, but especially to that good, great, and almost venerated man. "And what did you tell him about my engagement?" she faintly enquired.

"All I knew, Mary; with him I felt reserve to be both useless and unnecessary. He listened to my intelligence with the greatest interest and attention, but in silence, and almost immediately after, arose to take his leave. I ventured to add, that I was sure it would have given you pleasure to have seen him. He shook his head with a sad smile, and said, 'he had seen you more than once since you came to London.' Dear Mary, you seem as if doomed to mystery in your lovers; and shall I tell you something more singular still? I was much struck by something in Temple which strongly reminded me of Trevor. Not exactly feature, and not at all expression, but a something I cannot well define."

Mary sadly shook her head. There had been at times some vague impression of the same kind made upon her own mind; but at present fancy was too languid to realise the suggestion.

They returned to the carriage, for though the early dinner-hour of their kind, old-fashioned relations had been deferred expressly for their nephew's convenience, they almost feared that they should even now have trespassed on the good old people's consideration.

But Mary regretfully parted from the calm and silent spot, over which the shades of evening were now fast gathering, imparting a still greater air of solemn tranquillity to the scene. And often in days to come, when the poignant anguish then and there so softened and assuaged, had again died away, never to be recalled by the powers of memory—the place, and the hour, would float back upon her recollection—like the oasis amidst the parching sterility of the desert, to the grateful traveller—divested of all but their vague soothing and pleasurable associations.

On their way back to Arthur's chamber door, they fell in with several of his fellow students, just coming out of Hall.

They all respectfully stepped aside, and made way for "Seaham and his sister."

Arthur had already rendered himself not only a most popular and general favourite, but much respected, member of the Temple community, by his sociable, engaging—yet at the same time, steady, gentlemanly, and superior conduct and deportment.

CHAPTER VII.

Oh, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!

SHAKESPEARE.

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill,
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will.

COWPER.

That same night, Arthur Seaham called on Eugene Trevor at the hotel, in which he had easily ascertained the latter to be established.

He did not entertain much hope of finding him at home at that hour, but purposed proceeding there to demand an interview the following day. He was more fortunate than he expected.

He was told that Mr. Trevor was in the house, and it was not a little in Eugene's favour (in the brother's eyes) that he found him seated in a private room in the hotel, plunged in melancholy meditation, over the remains of a solitary dinner.

He looked up a little startled and surprised, when the name of his visitor was announced; but immediately arose, and shook hands cordially with the young man, expressing his pleasure at seeing him again. Then when the waiter, who staid to clear the table, had withdrawn and closed the door, and Arthur, who had replied to his greeting with somewhat of distant gravity, had seated himself silently on an opposite chair, Trevor at once, with eyes a little averted, said:

"Seaham, I can well guess what business has brought you here to-night. You come, of course, to speak upon the subject of your sister."

"I have come to-night, from my sister," was the calm, but somewhat emphasized reply.

"Indeed!" with a nervous uncertainty in his tone, which had not been perceptible in his former utterance. "She, Mary, told you, I suppose, of that most wretched meeting this afternoon."

"She did," Arthur Seaham again coldly replied; "and it was the nature of that meeting which made her desirous to communicate with you, through me, feeling herself unequal to treat the subject, as fully and satisfactorily as she had wished, by letter."

He again paused; and Trevor fixed his eyes upon the young man's face in anxious, agitated inquiry.

"You cannot suppose," Arthur continued, with an effort at calm moderation in his tone, "that the interview to which you allude was calculated much to raise my sister's spirits, or throw much light on her present clouded and uncertain prospects."

Trevor bowed his head in moody assent.

"You are quite right," he muttered gloomily, a darkness gathering over his brow; "and it is but natural that you, her brother, should require, and demand, further explanation and satisfaction."

"That, I again repeat, is not the point which brought me here on this occasion," Arthur rejoined. "I come, bound by a promise to my sister, to speak and act this night, as in her name and person, therefore, you can rest well assured," with a mingling of bitterness and tender feeling in his tone, "that in her case no explanation or satisfaction is required. No, rather, I have to assure you, that her trust and confidence still remain unmoved, and only for your own sake does she now desire and propose, that matters should be put on a more defined and certain footing; either that she should not be suffered to stand any longer in the way of your happiness or advantage, by the continuance of your now vague and uncertain engagement, or——"

But Trevor, with much eager agitation, at this point interrupted him.

"Mary—your sister," he exclaimed, "she surely cannot, does not wish to give me up?"

The brother looked steadily into the speaker's face, as if to ascertain that the emotion, which by his tone and manner bespoke the excitement this suggestion had caused, was truthfully imaged there; and on the whole he was not dissatisfied by the inspection; at least, if the deep glow first overspreading his brow, and then the ashy paleness succeeding, could be interpreted as corresponding signs of feeling; and he replied, though with something of suppressed bitterness:

"Her unselfish, womanly nature does not carry her so far. She is willing to make any sacrifice of her own feelings, her happiness, her affections if assured that it would tend to the removal of those—of course unforeseen, difficulties and annoyances"—with some severe stress upon the latter words, "which your engagement to her seems suddenly to have been the means of scattering on your path. Or if not this," he hastily added, as Trevor again made an effort to interrupt him, "or if not this, at least she proposes that some definite period be assigned, during which full opportunity and leisure be accorded you for the arrangement or removal of the present obstacles to your marriage."

Trevor rose abruptly, and for, several minutes paced the apartment in agitated silence. Then he returned to his seat, and with more calm determination addressed his companion.

"Seaham!" he said, bending low his head as he spoke, with his downcast eyes only at intervals raised from the ground, "Seaham, let me explain to you a little the circumstances of my present position, and then you will be better able to comprehend the embarrassing perplexity of my affairs."

Arthur looked up hopefully—now at least some light was to be thrown on the impenetrable mystery of the few last months.

"It is a painful subject," continued Trevor, speaking indeed as if with difficulty; "but I must not shrink from breaking it now to you. You are aware of the situation of my unfortunate brother?"

Seaham murmured assent.

"And therefore of the ambiguous position in which I at the same time stand, with regard to my father's property—"

Arthur again assented, but observed, that Mr. de Burgh had certainly given him reason to suppose, that he—Mr. Eugene Trevor's possession of the Montrevor property after his father's death—at least, in trust for his elder brother, was almost a decided arrangement, and that his inheritance to the most considerable part of his father's large fortune was certain; but whether or not this were the case, his sister's friends had been perfectly satisfied that even as a younger son, he must be amply provided for. Eugene hastened to interrupt Arthur Seaham by saying:

"And believe me, when I declare, that till the day I parted from your sister at Silverton, I never entertained a misgiving as to the possibility of any such obstacle, as I then, to my dismay, found to exist against the speedy completion of my marriage. The state of the case is this: My father is, and has ever been, very peculiar in his pecuniary views and arrangements. He has, as you were made to understand, most surely, and decidedly favoured me, with regard to the inheritance. I do stand in every possible respect in the position of an elder son; but at the same time, he has more than nullified any present advantage such an arrangement could procure for me, by having so arranged his affairs, that during his lifetime I have, under the present circumstances, no power to make any settlement on my wife."

"Under what circumstances?" quietly demanded the embryo lawyer.

"That brings me again to that one most painful point. If the present state of my unfortunate brother was clearly ascertained, then, perhaps, proceedings, from which our feelings in the first instance shrunk, might be taken, which would effectually do away with the ambiguity of my present circumstances and position."

"And why cannot the fact you mention be ascertained?" persisted Arthur, though in a tone of the most delicate consideration.

"Because," answered Trevor, with a hesitation and embarrassment of manner, which passed well for painful emotion, "because, for the last few years, my brother has entirely eluded the surveillance of his friends and guardians. No clue can be found, no trace of him discovered. Every search and enquiry has been—and still is in prosecution; some doubts even are entertained as to his death." He paused; then passing his hand over his brow, as if to prevent further discussion of a subject against which his feelings sensitively shrank, he finally added: "My lawyer will confirm what I have said, concerning the exertions I have made on this point, if you like to refer to him," and he mentioned the name and address of the family man of business.

Arthur Seaham mused in silence for several minutes; then said:

"I am therefore to understand, that during the life time of your father, or till your brother's destination is ascertained, no further steps can be taken with regard to your marriage. One circumstance rather surprises me, that your father, aware as he must have been of the restraint thus imposed upon your powers of making a settlement upon your wife, allowed you to involve yourself so far in a matrimonial engagement. Nay, seemed in a certain degree to favour, and encourage your design."

"That" Trevor replied, "I fear is only to be understood by those, who are as well acquainted with the peculiar points of my father's disposition as myself. The quiet manner in which he took the intelligence of my intended marriage, I own surprised me at the time, knowing his extreme aversion to any measure, or proceeding, calculated in the least degree, to touch upon his ruling passion, or as I may now term it in his present stage of existence—his ruling weakness; that is to say, any measure that would in the least degree disturb, or infringe upon the close and arbitrary arrangements of his financial affairs—arrangements which it is the one business of his existence to maintain inviolate and undisturbed. I now discover how little cause I had to thank him for his seemingly easy acquiescence in my intended marriage, and that he has treated me," he added in a subdued and injured tone, "far from well or kindly in the matter."

"And you are entirely dependant on his—as it seems most tyrannical pleasure?" demanded Seaham, an angry flush mounting to his brow; the position in which the cruel, sordid, cunning of the old man's conduct had placed his sister, making the most impression on his feelings.

"Most unfortunately so!" was Trevor's reply; "it has been the aim, and purpose, of my father's existence to render his children, and all those with whom he had to do, as much as possible dependant on his most arbitrary and capricious will. You would not think this perhaps, to behold him now—to all appearance, that meek and mild old man. But so it is; see him as I have lately seen him, on what was supposed to be his dying bed, and you would then have full proof and specimen before your eyes of the ruling passion strong in death."

"From all this then—I am to conclude," said Arthur Seaham, "that one of the two arrangements suggested by my sister are the only alternatives; either," and he looked again steadily into Eugene's face, "that you give up at once all further engagement."

"To that!" interrupted Trevor, starting from his seat in sudden excitement, "to that, tell your sister," he exclaimed passionately, "I cannot, will not consent. Remind her of the promise she once made to me upon the subject, and tell her, that on my part, no power on earth shall compel me to give her up. No," he murmured, his eye gleaming around from beneath his now darkened brow, as if seeking to address with dark defiance some hidden foe, "no threats, no vengeful malice shall ever force me to do that."

Seaham regarded him with surprise, but thought to himself: "This man certainly loves my sister with a strength and sincerity not to be mistaken," and then with rather softened feeling, he said:

"But you will agree perhaps to her other proposition?"

"I do—I must," with eager energy, "there is as you observed, no other alternative. Say, some months—perhaps a year. In that time much may be effected."

Trevor leant his elbow upon the mantelpiece, and pressed his brow upon his hand, in unquiet thought. Seaham rose.

"A year then," he repeated, "for a year, I may tell my sister you agree to the necessity of postponing matters. During that time," he added with marked significance, "I shall be constantly to be found in London."

"And your sister?" Trevor eagerly demanded.

"Mary will very shortly proceed to Scotland, where she may probably remain some time with my sister who lives in Edinburgh."

"What, so far?" Trevor exclaimed impatiently.

"I cannot see," the brother replied with some hauteur, "that a greater vicinity under present circumstances, would be either necessary or desireable. Interviews for instance, such as the one by which my sister's feelings were so distressed to-day, can be neither for her happiness or advantage."

Trevor had no more to say. He shook hands with Arthur, who appeared to have no further desire to remain. Like one subdued and exhausted in mind and body, almost silently he suffered the young man to take his leave.

Seaham merely repeated that he should be found, or could be referred to at any time at the Temple, and in a few moments had quitted the hotel.

CHAPTER VIII.