"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 _fiancee_,--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.