Volume Iii Part 23 (1/2)
Mary was not a partner in their secret understanding. Calmly, as was her wont, she had been returning homeward, with the happy consciousness that her presence that day had lighted up many a face with suns.h.i.+ne--bound up by its consolation, many a wounded heart--that she could lay her head on her pillow that night, and feel that she had to-day lived to G.o.d, and to her fellow-creatures.
And truly many a tongue blessed, and many an eye turned with love and respect, as they looked upon that sweet pale face, returning slowly from her wanderings amongst them. Mary knew she was expected home to tea, but having turned a wistful eye towards her favourite hill, now all red and glowing in the early sunset, finally began the ascent; and once more we see her seated on that cool, quiet spot, her eye fixed on the same fair scene she had viewed with such fond, but hopeful regret, on the evening of her last departure from her mountain-home. And, oh! it was on such occasions, when hours of languid ease returned like this she now enjoyed, that Mary felt the urgent necessity of bracing up her mind and nerves by a course of healthy action, by carrying out into practice the lesson which the great trial of her early youth had taught her--”Patience, abnegation of self, and devotion to others.” For then would she feel stealing over her senses the spirit of those days, when she had walked the earth overshadowed by a dream. Yes, the spirit of her dream had changed since last we followed Mary Seaham to this charmed spot!--the shadows of hopes at that time vaguely cherished in her breast, soon, to her sorrow, so wonderfully realized, had pa.s.sed away for ever, as their idol object had been torn from its shrine.
And now this purer, n.o.bler image, reared upon the crumbled image of the former, engendered by no ideal dreams--no morbid fantasy, but which, by the force of its own glorious strength and beauty, had won its victory over her soul--must this be also doomed to perish--to fade away into a haunting shadow of the past?
Yes, Eustace Trevor must be to her as one dead--not absent!--the dream be dissipated, for the hope was vain on which it was founded: vain--and incompatible with the pure, calm hope it was now the desire of her heart to aspire.
Not very long, therefore, did Mary allow herself to indulge in the beguiling luxury of her solitary repose; but remembering that there were loving hearts at home awaiting her return, she aroused herself from the spirit of reverie which was stealing over her, and waiting but to pluck some few sprigs of the first white heath of the season, with one last, lingering look on the fading beauties of the landscape, she rose and turned to depart; but as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
”Still she stood with her lips apart, And forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, Whilst to her eyes and her cheeks, came the light and The bloom of the morning.”
For it was no dream--no deluding vision of her imagination out of which she was called to awake--a shadow indeed was upon her path, but it was the form of Eustace Trevor, which in its n.o.ble reality stood before her!
The conversation which ensued was not so lengthened as that which had taken place between Edward Temple and Mary Seaham, on that same spot some six years ago; but need we say that its issue was of a very different character, and that this time Eustace did not descend the hill alone.
Mr. Wynne was waiting at the gate of Glan Pennant, when at length the stately figure of his friend, and leaning on his arm the fair and fragile form of Mary,
”The dew on the plaid, and the tear in her e'e,”
appeared in sight.
Hastening to meet them, he wrung the hand of Mary with emotion, but bade her go in fast and make the tea which had been waiting for her ever so long--the water getting cold whilst she was after her old tricks, dreaming on the hills; and Mary, with a grateful smile, having returned the fervent pressure of her good old friend, in broken accents, promised that she would dream no more.
She was not indeed free from a deep debt of grat.i.tude to Mr. Wynne, for it was he who, it may be said, had formed the cementing link between the fates of Mary Seaham and Eustace Trevor.
Not that any such was wanting to maintain the strongly rooted attachment of Eustace towards Mary. It was one which must ever have exerted a sensible and indelible influence over his future life, as it had done over the few last years of his past existence. But there were scruples in his mind, the result perhaps of that extreme susceptibility conspicuous in his character, on every point of delicacy or honour, which restrained him from yielding himself to the delightful hope of obtaining the beloved of his brother for his wife; and it was these morbid scruples, as he deemed them, that Mr. Wynne had made every effort to overcome, and that not so much by direct argument, as by bringing before his friend's imagination the lovely picture of Mary's present existence, finally declaring that, through the daily increasing heavenliness of her life and conversation, she was growing so much too good for this world, that they should not be allowed to retain her long amongst them, did not some earthly tie of a very binding nature give her some motive for interest here below; and there was one alone he felt convinced could have that power--for that some secret grief, some sorrow unspoken, unsuspected--some strongly crushed affection, lay at the bottom of Mary Seaham's outwardly calm and patient demeanour, and this in no way connected with the old delusion of her youth, her old friend felt but too well a.s.sured.
So on this hint it was that Eustace Trevor came--came with a heart all yearning, tremulous tenderness and solicitude--and once more on the Welsh hill-side, laid the hope and happiness of his future life at the feet of Mary Seaham.