Whether or not, she had reason for repentance on this score, may cause, amongst those who follow her future history a difference of opinion.
But certain it is, that with not a pang of envious regret on her own account, had she seen her young and blooming sister, Agnes, give her hand that morning, five years after the event of her refusal to the same excellent man, the only disagreeable feeling the occasion excited in her mind being, the difficulty of reconciling herself to the idea, that her dear, pretty, young sister Aggy, should so cheerfully acquiesce in a fate which had once raised in her own mind such unqualified disinclination.
But then she was the only individual in the world, who did not think the fair bride the luckiest creature in the world, and the wisest.
"Who but a fool like me, they think, no doubt," mused Mary Seaham, with a humble sigh, "would have rejected such an advantage as they seem to consider it. True, I was only seventeen at the time, but am I wiser at twenty-one? to-night's experience has well shown forth." And she remembered a certain fable which had composed a portion of her childhood's lessons, 'The dog and the shadow,' and smiled in very scorn and derision at her own puerility.
But alas! there are shadows which our wild and wilful imaginations have conjured up which, scorn and deride them as we may, are destined to cast a darkening influence on our future destinies.
"Our fatal shadows that walk by us still;"
to become, in fact, a substance--a reality--from which we would often fain be able to awake and say: it was a dream.
"Grant us not the ill we ask--in very love refuse-- That which we know, our weakness would abuse."
But it is as well, perhaps, to retrograde, in order to relate the incident which some years ago had cast its beguiling shadows upon the pure stream of our heroine's young existence. She was scarcely sixteen, when, under the _chaperonage_ of her sister, Lady Everingham, then a bride, she had found herself at the summer fete, given by the father of her cousin, Mr. de Burgh's beautiful betrothed. Lady Everingham was taken ill soon after her arrival, and returned home with her husband, leaving her young sister under the nominal care of her cousin, Louis de Burgh, and his _fiancee_ (the queen of that day's revels), who had, with the most eager kindness, taken upon themselves the charge, but as may be naturally supposed were but far too much better employed to carry out their good intentions, so that Mary, having for some little time kept near them, feeling very greatly _de trop_, being at length divided for an instant from their side, saw the lovers, when next in view, disappear together within the shade of a _bosquet_, and she left alone amidst these few strangers, and indifferent friends, who happened to be near the spot.
Her youth and timidity made this situation of itself one of sufficient embarrassment to her feelings, there being none with whom she felt such a degree of intimacy or acquaintance as gave her courage to claim their protection or companionship, but when these even began to drop off by degrees from the parterre, wherein a portion of the company had assembled, and the last lady had eventually departed without her having the courage to follow in her train, poor Mary's distress was at its climax. Only a group, composed of several gentlemen, with not one of whom she was in any way acquainted, remained behind.
The solitary position in which she found herself, causing her to become a conspicuous object, the timid, though not awkward embarrassment of the young girl as she stood irresolute, whether to remain or to retire, attracted the attention of the party. They all looked at her, one or two exchanged smiles which poor Mary, was very quick to interpret into those of amusement and derision; and crimsoning to the temples, she was preparing to glide away in desperate search of her cousin, when out of that very group from whose fancied satire she was so anxious to escape, a gentleman stepped forward and politely addressed her.
He was afraid that she had lost her friends; could he in any way assist her? She thanked him, and hesitatingly murmured the names of her cousin and his bride elect. But this seemed sufficient explanation to the gentleman, with regard to the situation to which he found the young lady exposed. He smiled good-naturedly--feared she must not find fault with any deficiency in _their chaperonage_ just now; and begged her to accept his arm, and avail herself of his escort until she could be restored to the runaways. The speaker was young and handsome. Mary Seaham looked up gratefully into the dark eyes bent down so kindly upon her. The tone in which he mentioned her cousin seemed to denote that an intimacy existed between them. But setting aside these considerations, there was no prudery in that young and innocent heart. She placed her arm within that of the stranger's with the _nave_ and simple confidence of a child, and suffered him to lead her away from the scene of her discomfiture.
Neither did he seem in any hurry to relieve himself of the charge he had undertaken, for though he met and spoke to many lady friends, to whose care he might, had he desired it, have committed Mary, he did not avail himself of the opportunity but still continued to conduct her here and there--finding she was a stranger to the beautiful domain--to every spot considered worthy of interest and admiration, seeming himself pleased, and interested by the gentle intelligent delight, with which his young companion--now that she was happy and at ease--entered into the spirit of everything around her; her first shyness wearing away, and her innocent re-assurance, being still more effectually established after an encounter with her cousin and his intended. The enamoured pair, reminded, for the first time of the charge they had neglected, by the sight of Mary, if they looked a little surprised at first, to see her thus accompanied, were evidently relieved by finding her in any way happily disposed of; and when playfully attacked by her protector for having so unfaithfully fulfilled their office to his fair charge, they answered in the same tone that Miss Seaham could not have found a better _chaperon_ than her present companion. And then the handsome lovers, a more graceful pair at that time could not have been found, gaily kissed their hands, and pursued their flowery path--a path in which there surely seemed as yet to lurk no thorn.
"It was the time of roses, They plucked them as they passed."
Thus again, left standing alone together, Mary's companion looked at her and smiled. Mary too smiled, but she blushed also and said: "You see they will not take me off your hands; pray do not let me be in your way, but take me to some lady of your acquaintance, who will doubtless let me stay by her side."
"Not for the world!" was the earnest rejoinder, "at least if you are not tired of my society. Dinner--to which you must allow me the pleasure of conducting you--must," he added, looking at his watch, "soon be ready; till then, let me show you the aviary."
And again he offered his arm, and led her in that direction. After which, as she owned at last to feeling a little tired, they seated themselves in the pavilion, where others of the company were assembled, awaiting the banquet to be given in the house. There was one peculiarity about her companion which impressed Mary at the time.
Though animated and lively in his manner and discourse when he did speak, his words were not many, whilst on the contrary the earnest, thoughtful interest with which he seemed to listen to every sentence proceeding from her mouth, trivial and simple as she considered them herself to be, at the same time as it encouraged and irresistibly flattered her modest pride, made her, nevertheless, wonder, and once or twice look up inquiringly into the dark eyes bent down so earnestly upon her face, as she gave utterance to any opinion or remark, as if to discover from what reason this might proceed.
She could not tell what attraction there often is in the simple-minded, guileless nature of a youthful being like herself, to the man plunged in the cares and passions of maturer years, and though Eugene Trevor, at that time was young--not more than five and twenty--a more experienced eye than Mary's might have discerned, _that_ stamped upon his countenance, which told him to be, even then, no stranger to those dark storms of passion, or of secret sin which, sweeping over man's breast, blight before its time the freshness, health, and purity of youth.
But how could Mary Seaham read all this? how should her guileless spirit divine the wild, dark thoughts--the sinful purposes, unspeakable, unspoken, which must even at that very time, like so many demons, have been working, suggesting, forming themselves within the soul of him who thus was seated by her unsuspecting side? And well for all of us, that thus it must ever be--
"For what if Heaven for once its searching light Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all The rude bad thoughts that in our bosoms' night Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall; Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place, As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, A mother's arm a serpent should embrace; So might we friendless live--and die unblest."
Yet Mary need not have wondered, even had it been given her, to look in less partial light upon the being who by his kindness and other fascinating qualities had so propitiated her sensitive, susceptible young heart.
Must the little brooklet wonder if the heated traveller, passing fiercely on his dusty way beneath the noon-day summer sun, consumed with inward fever and parching thirst; should turn with grateful delight to kneel and bow his head over its cool and limpid waters, blessing unawares the source of such pure refreshment.
But then, alas! he rises like a giant refreshed to pursue his course of ambition, pleasure, sin to whichever of these that course may tend; and what more does he think of that clear, pure stream, when quaffing freely of those turbid waters, from which at length the fevered votary is fain to slake his fiery thirst?
And thou silly stream, to retain so long the softened shadow of that dark image, which for one brief minute had been reflected on thy limpid bosom!
It was then five years since the period of the little episode we have retrograded to relate, five years which had softly glided over Mary Seaham's head, in the almost uninterrupted retirement of her mountain home, and the simple enjoyments and pursuits this existence provided.
Five years, which at her happy hopeful period of life, adds, oftener than detracts, from each charm either of mind or person--when, under such untried circumstances, the heart springs forward upon the wings of hope with freshness yet undiminished, and vigour unabated.
It was then between five and six years after, that Mary Seaham, on a summer eve found herself approaching her cousin's house in ----, which place she had last visited with her sister, Lady Everingham, and from thence repaired to that fete which had proved no unimportant incident in her life.
CHAPTER V.
Then came the yearning of the exile's breast, The haunting sound of voices far away, And household steps.
HEMANS.
Silverton was a fine estate, and though the country in which it was situated was tame and unlovely in comparison with that to which she had been for so long accustomed, yet Mary Seaham was not so inveterate a mountaineer that she could look, as I know many do, upon the different aspect of the mother country, with the eye of utter aversion and distaste, and though she could not perhaps have gone so far as to agree with old Evelyn when he, asserts Salisbury plain to be in his opinion, the part of Great Britain most worthy of admiration, yet for the gaze to be able to stretch unbounded over a level tract of cultivated land after having been long imprisoned within the massive confines of a mountainous district, she was not ashamed to own, there may be a certain degree of pleasurable relief.
But as may be supposed, any very critical survey of surrounding objects was at an end, when with that degree of nervousness ever more or less attending an arrival of this kind, she drew near the place of her destination in the carriage which had been sent to meet her. There was no one to receive her at the door when she alighted, but the servants, and its being near the dinner-hour, Mary concluded her cousins to have retired to their dressing-rooms. On making inquiries, however, to that effect she was informed that Mrs. de Burgh had not yet returned from her drive, and Mr. de Burgh was also from home.
Mary therefore accepted the offer of the civil domestic to be shown to the room prepared for her, and retired thither, not sorry to be able to rest awhile, after the fatigues of her long journey before a meeting with her relatives. Perhaps her spirits might be a little damped by the reception, or rather _non_-reception she had met with.
There is so much importance attached to a warm welcome, by those not well initiated in the careless frigidities of general society, that the very sensitive and inexperienced are often more chilled by any such accidental or habitual infringements on this score, than the occasion really requires.
We grow wiser or harder as we pass farther through the world, and learn to look upon it no longer as one large home of loving hearts, such as some may have accounted it; but a stage on which every man is too intent to play his own individual part, to have much respect for these minor charities of social life--the word, the look of kindness, of affection which to the sensitive and unworldly spirit are often of higher price--contribute more to make up the sum of mortal happiness, than the most generous deed, or striking act of beneficence. We grow as we have before said, wiser or more callous, as we pass on through this world of our's--learn to see upon what principle society is founded, and cease to shrink chilled, and wounded, before each touch which falls coldly upon the warm surface of our too _exigente_ heart--each unsympathetic glance which meets our wistful gaze.
Mary Seaham sat down by her window, which commanded a view of the carriage road, through the park, to watch for the return of her cousin's wife.
The evening was lovely, and she could not feel astonished that Mrs. de Burgh should have prolonged her drive. A cool freshness had succeeded the sultriness of the day, and she had perhaps not gone out till late.
The scene too on which Mary looked was pleasant and refreshing to the eye. The wide park with its troop of spotted deer, herding for the night beneath the luxuriant foliage of the trees, which in rich clumps or single majesty were scattered thickly over the demesne, gilded by the still bright but softened sunbeams.
But Mary Seaham was not quite able to enter into the enjoyment, which at any other time would have been amply afforded her.
She raised her eyes and began to feel a regretful longing for the sun-gilt or cloud capped mountains, which for so long had met her gaze, towering above the highest tree-tops of the Glan Pennant gardens--and then a sense of strangeness and desolation came creeping over her feelings.
For the first time she seemed to realize the true nature of her present position--and the sight of some labourers, wending their way across the by-paths from their daily toil, tended to bring her gathering sadness to a crisis.
"They are going home," she murmured, and a few tears stole gently down her cheeks. Then she thought of her sisters--the youngest, in particular, as most lately and intimately associated with her in sympathy and companionship, now so far divided, not only by distance, but by the different ties and interests of her new estate; and then occurred to her the words she had so lately heard.
"Do you think you will find your cousin's house agreeable to you?" and she began to ask herself that question too, though not for the same reason, which had suggested the question to Mr. Temple--not lest it might prove too gay and worldly for her tastes and inclination, but by reason of the loneliness she might therein experience--that worst of loneliness--the loneliness of the heart, or,--
"She might meet with kindness and be lonely still, For gratitude is not companionship."
Why then had she come here, would not her sister Alice, have gladly opened her doors to receive her? And all the comparative inconvenience and discomfort of that arrangement, seemed to melt into insignificance before the other attractions of the picture suddenly conjured up. A sister's warm, and earnest welcome--the familiar family voice which would have greeted her, the tone of which at once would have made her feel at home, though in a strange land, amongst unfamiliar scenes and personages, whilst even the noisy delight of half-a-dozen nephews, and nieces, which would have celebrated her arrival, came before her fancy--as she sat in her silent solitary grandeur--in most alluring contrast with her present undemonstrative, though luxurious reception.
But no! she had been attracted by the urgent and pressing desire expressed in the letters of her cousins, to make their house her home until the return of her brother to England, and there had been something in the impression she had received, or the associations connected with her memories of those relatives, that had moved her, perhaps with little reflection, to embrace the offer.