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.
Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.
LONGFELLOW.
In less than a fortnight from the period of this interview, Mary escorted by her brother-in-law, Mr. Gillespie, who had been in London on business, left England for Edinburgh.
This plan was much more accordant with her state of feeling at this period, than would have been that of accompanying her sister Agnes into Wales, as the latter was so affectionately anxious she should have done.
It would have been melancholy for her just then to have found her dear old home, Glan Pennant, in the hands of strangers, and there is something still more melancholy to the feelings in revisiting familiar scenes, associated as they may be in the mind with naught but happy careless memories, when over the spirit of our dream has passed like a blight some subduing change, such as was now overshadowing Mary's happiness.
"It wrings the heart to see each thing the same, Tread over the same steps, and then to find The difference in the heart. It is so sad, So very lonely to be the sole one In whom there is a sign of change."
Besides it was very long since she had seen her sister Alice, so tied to home by her many domestic cares and duties.
Agnes' life was one as yet all holiday enjoyment--her heart bounding with delight at the prospect of an establishment in her beautiful country home--in her own dear neighbourhood.
"There was no sorrow in her note"--and Mary perceived and rejoiced in the conviction that her younger sister's happiness needed no additional weight. Next to being happy herself, she desired most the power of bestowing happiness on others, and a real pleasure she knew would be her presence to that excellent elder sister. She would seek in some degree to aid and lighten her cares and avocations. It would have been better perhaps had she gone there, long ago. But could she bring her heart to accede to this assumption?
Oh, no! not yet--not now--not ever could that be.
"I hold it true, what'er betide, I feel it when I sorrow most, 'Tis better to have lov'd and lost Than never to have loved at all."
This, rather we assume, was the language of that faithful heart, still clinging too tenderly to the intense happiness of the past, to grudge the anguish of its bewildering reverse.
Clouds had arisen to obscure the heaven of her certain happiness--her once full hope had been deferred, but the day of despondency or of sickening weariness had not yet arrived.
Her lover's explanatory interview with her brother had effectually cleared, from her all believing mind, many a vague dread and anxious misgiving, which at one time were beginning to disturb her spirit; and again she could set herself to wait patiently, buoyed up by her all enduring love--her steadfast entire trust. But this hope, and trust, beautiful in themselves, could they be set alone on the frail and futile creature?
"Hope in the Lord, wait patiently for Him, and he shall give thee thy heart's desire. Commit thy way unto Him, and trust in Him, and He will bring it to pass."
Surely Mary's meek obedient soul, must have drawn its greatest strength and patience from the dictates of this high and holy invocation.
There was too, something perhaps most providentially salutary and effective, in the atmosphere of the home, where at this particular moment Mary had been led to take up her abode.
Here in the example afforded by her sister Alice's adaptation, and appropriation of herself--her tastes, and her talents, to that one ultimate end of all, feelings and powers; the performance of her duty, in that state of life which had been assigned to her--Mary's gentle mind, too prone perhaps, by nature to rest in passive enjoyment, and in the barren luxury of emotions, might receive a lesson, strengthening and benificial for its future need.
"That life is not all poetry To gentle measures set,"
"That Heaven must be won, not dreamed."
How a mind and character, that from amongst all her sisters, had been the one most answering to her own, had effectually roused itself from the shadowy Paradise of her earlier years, to meet the real demands of life--to embrace its actual duties, and defy its uncongenial pains--and not only this, but to find therein, more than in the pleasanter summer paths of earlier days, or in those refined indulgences in which her spirit still loved at times to cherish, true happiness and peace.
"I have found peace in the bright earth, And in the sunny sky, I have found it in the summer seas, And where dreams murmur by.
"I find it in the quiet tone Of voices that I love, By the flickering of a twilight fire, And in a leafless grove.
"I find it in the silent flow Of solitary thought, In calm, half-meditated dreams, And reasonings self-taught.
"But seldom have I found such peace As in the soul's deep joy, Of passing onward free from harm, Through every day's employ."
And even her brother-in-law, Mr. Gillespie, though of a less kindred soul, and with those matter of fact and prosaic points of character--attributes in his case, both national and professional. Even in his companionship, she found something bracing and effectual, such as she might not have done with more yielding and indulgent friends.
Her darling brother--it had been her former happy dream to pass her unmarried days in his companionship; and she might have been with him now, had it not been deemed, at present, neither convenient or expedient.
She must in that case have shared her brother's chambers in London; and at her age, and under her peculiar circumstances, such an arrangement could scarcely be available, without being an interruption to her brother's important studies and pursuits, though he would have made any present sacrifice for his sister's sake.
Ah, yes! or why did he turn his eyes so steadily from a sight so fascinating to his heart as was that cherub face, which often looked down upon him from a pew of the Temple Church--or bravely resist the flattering attention and repeated hospitalities of the eminent counsel, that cherub's father, in whose house--
"He saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, but a woman too,"
and who seemed in every way inclined to bestow her notice on the promising, agreeable student of the Middle Temple?
Why?--but because he determined to allow no cherub face to usurp the foremost place in his affections, no "ladye love," with form however beautiful, to become the reigning, mistress of his house and hearth until that beloved sister of his youth had secured a dearer, better home.
Besides, under any circumstances, he was not such a fool as to think of marrying for many a year yet; a pretty business it would be if over the dingy pages of Blackstone, and the year book, was for ever flitting the bewitching, radiant face of Carrie Elliott.
Thus, then, for a time shall we leave our heroine, whose fortunes, like the gentle flowing course of a glistening river, we have hitherto so undeviatingly pursued; whilst we turn aside, not willingly, to trace through their darker, wilder mazes, the fate and fortunes of those two beings, whom an inscrutable Providence had ordained should hold such important influence over her destiny.
CHAPTER IX.
Farewell; and if a soul where hatred's gall Melts into pardon, that embalmeth all, Can with forgiveness bless thee; from remorse Can pluck the stone which interrupts the course Of thought to God; and bid the waters rest Calm in Heaven's smile--poor fellow-man, be blest!
THE NEW TIMON.
Eugene Trevor was fated to encounter another interview of importance before he laid down to rest that night, or rather morning, succeeding the meeting with Arthur Seaham.
He had gone forth, very soon after the departure of the latter, to seek diversion for his disturbed and troubled spirit by excitement--that most common resource of man under similar circumstances--offered in the shape of those amusements belonging to the sporting club of which he was a member.
He returned to the hotel more than one hour after midnight, to be informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him on particular business.
"At this time of night?" was the impatient reply. "Who in the world can it be?"
The gentleman had not given his name; he had come more than two hours ago, but had expressed his intention of remaining to await Mr. Trevor's return.
Eugene, with a certain uncomfortable feeling of misgiving at his heart, proceeded to the apartment into which his unseasonable visitor had been shown. Two candles burnt dimly on the table. Dark, pale, haggard, as the imperfect light gleamed upon his features, looked the lover of the gentle Mary, thus returning from those midnight excitements in which he had plunged to dispel too haunting thoughts and vivid memories connected with her pure and holy image; but a something of strange and startled wildness was added to their expression, as his eyes fixed themselves first uncertainly--and then gradually and clearly identified the face and form of him who stood up to receive him--that tall, commanding form, before which his own seemed to shrink into insignificance--that face, as pale as was his own, but from before whose calm, steady gaze his eyes for an instant quailed so fearfully.