Volume I Part 5 (1/2)
”A great deal indeed!” was almost unconsciously echoed by Mary's lips, as her thoughts silently wandered over the domestic changes and family events which coloured her reminiscences of that intervening period, whilst from the soft pensive expression which stole over her countenance, it might have seemed that it was more a soothing relief to take refuge from ”the strife of tongues” in the private sanctuary of thought thus suggested, than that any very sharp pang of sadness or regret was roused by this reflection.
”A great deal certainly!” had echoed instinctively from Eugene Trevor's lips. But why has the smile with which he lightly commenced the words, faded away like a gleam of suns.h.i.+ne, from the dark hill side, ere they died upon his lips, what were the suggested thoughts, the awakened recollections he would have wished diverted? What record did the history of these six years inscribe on the tablets of his memory?
What ever it might be, he did not pause to contemplate it long; but pouring himself out a gla.s.s of wine, drank it down hastily, as if the ruddy draught could wash away the unrepented sin; the unatoned iniquity of his secret soul--then looked and spoke as unconsciously as before.
”Each mind has indeed,” as it has been ably written, ”an interior apartment into which none but itself and the divinity can enter. In this secluded place, the pa.s.sions fluctuate and mingle in unknown agitation.
Here all the fantastic, and all the tragic shapes of imagination have a haunt--where they can neither be invaded or discerned. Here projects, convictions, vows, are confusedly scattered, and the records of past life are laid; and here in solitary state, sits conscience surrounded by her own thunders which sometimes sleep, and sometimes roar, while the world knows it not.”
We said or quoted something to the same effect in a preceding chapter, and added--that it was well that it should be so.
CHAPTER VII.
There are some moments in our fate That stamp the colour of our days.
And mine was sealed in the slight gaze Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain, And bowed my head beneath the chain.
L. E. L.
Mrs. de Burgh soon after led Mary to the drawing-room, when all that was kind and affectionate, and calculated to rea.s.sure her young guest's mind, with regard to her previously conceived misgivings, was expressed by the former lady.
They were, however--owing probably to the lateness of the hour, soon joined by the gentlemen.
Mr. de Burgh immediately sat down by his cousin's side, and, as if with the intention of making himself more thoroughly agreeable than circ.u.mstances had previously permitted, he entered into animated discourse, in which, finding Mary perfectly able to sustain a competent and intelligent part, he had speedily pa.s.sed from the merits and beauty of his children, and such like natural easy points of discussion, to some improvements in the grounds, in which his interest seemed to be at present much engrossed, showing more scientific and general information on the whole than she had previously conceived him to possess;--he, appearing on his part pleased to find so willing and intelligent a listener in his young lady cousin.
Mrs. de Burgh in the meantime had, soon after the conversation commenced between them, called Eugene Trevor away to the open window, and conversed with him at intervals in a low, confidential voice, whilst turning over a pile of new music lying on the ottoman by her side.
At last she called out to Mary, and asked her if she sung.
Mary replied in the negative, but remembering well the beautiful voice possessed by Mrs. de Burgh before her marriage, she rose with glad alacrity to solicit a song from her.
Mrs. de Burgh, whose question probably had been but a note of preparation for her own projected performance, smiled compliance with the request, and proceeded to the piano, whilst Mary, ensconcing herself in a quiet nook between the piano and window, yielded her senses to the soothing enjoyment which poetry and melody conjoined always afforded them; and Mrs. de Burgh sung that evening only English songs, with a beauty and pathos perfectly enchanting.
”My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing, Far away into the regions dim of rapture, As a boat with swift sail winging Its way adown some many-winding river.”
Many an evening Mary sat in that same place, and listened with never-tiring pleasure to the same delightful songs, but never perhaps with such pure, unmingled pleasure as had this sweet music on the present occasion inspired her.
”Softest grave of a thousand fears, Where their mother care, like a drowsy child, Is laid asleep in flowers.”
Once, at the close of a peculiarly beautiful ballad, she lifted up her eyes, those ”down-falling eyes, full of dreams and slumber,” now gemmed with a delicious tear, to encounter the dark orbs of Eugene Trevor, as he stood shaded from the light, in the deep embrasure of the window.
”You are very fond of music,” he said, coming forward with a smile, on finding his earnest gaze thus discovered.
”Oh, very fond indeed!” Mary replied, with a low sigh, which marked perhaps the spell of musical enchantment to have been broken by the question, or it may be--the moment when some other power first fell upon her spirit.
”Though who can tell What time the angel pa.s.sed who left the spell?”
”Very fond indeed,” she continued; ”but who is there that is not fond of music?”