"A bark sent forth to sail alone, At midnight on the moonlight sea."

Why not then, like himself, be content to tarry in the little haven of peace where Providence had guided him? Why again return to drift at large upon that lonely ocean?

Eustace Trevor shook his head with a melancholy smile, though at the same time his pale brow flushed at the suggestion.

"That cannot be, my good Sir," he said, "unless at least you can guarantee for me such seclusion in this wild and lonely region of yours as accords with the peculiar circ.u.mstances of my case. You will be afraid of me when I say, that it is my wish to conceal my place of destination from every person in the world, beyond these mountains, to whom my name could possibly be known."

Mr. Wynne paused at first, with a look of surprise; but after for a moment steadily fixing his eyes upon the n.o.ble countenance of Eustace, he exclaimed:

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Sir. I am quite satisfied with believing that you have the best reasons for such a course of conduct; that misfortune, not any fault of your own, has reduced you to such an alternative. And I can a.s.sure you, you have come to the right place for getting rid of old friends or enemies, whichever they may be; for during the twenty years I have been settled here, not one of those of whom I formerly could boast has ever found his way unbidden over these impregnable barriers; so set your mind at rest on that score. Come and stay with me at my hermitage, till such time as you see fit; and then, if you tire of the company of an old fellow like myself, we can find you out another as secure."

"My dear Sir, this kindness on your part is beyond the expression of mere common thanks. Alas! were it only possible that I could avail myself of it; but the facts connected with my present position are of such a peculiar nature, that unless you are made fully acquainted with them, it is impossible that you can rightly appreciate the extent of security I desire; and yet, though your confidence, thank G.o.d! is not misplaced, those facts are of such a sort as make it almost impossible for me to reveal them. At the same time, of your generous trust, which has not yet allowed you to seek enlightenment even as to my name, nothing would induce me to take further advantage. Either I leave this place to-morrow, or my _incognito_, as far as concerns yourself, must be removed."

"And why not, if that is the only alternative which presents itself, tell your sad history to the old man; what then? In his breast it will lie as safely buried as if you committed the secret to yonder lichened rock. You are young, Sir; you have written in your countenance that which bespeaks you one of a higher order of intellect and capacity than befits this narrow sphere; but yet for a time, till this storm is blown over, tarry here."

We need not pursue word for word, step by step, the relation, with the issue of which my readers are fully acquainted. We have only to say, that Eustace Trevor finally confided his whole history to Mr. Wynne, under the strictest promise of secrecy; and that the good man listened with the quiet, unwondering spirit which spoke his knowledge of that world lying in wickedness, or rather, the desperate wickedness of the human heart; and whilst clearly perceiving the morbid nature of the feelings which had prompted the victim of such wickedness to so extraordinary a course of proceeding, the interest of his own romantic mind was but the more excited; and keenly he entered into every plan which might facilitate the detention of Eustace, taking upon himself to have, accompanied with all secrecy and silence, every arrangement made necessary to his comfort and convenience. Even with regard to the a.s.sumed name the latter saw it expedient to embrace, and to which he did not see any objection, Mr. Wynne came to his aid.

He had once, many years ago, a dear friend named Edward Temple, now no more--by such he should be known for the present, and under that appellation he should yield him any voluntary a.s.sistance in the duties of his profession as might accord with his taste and inclination. So then it was arranged, and under these circ.u.mstances the so-named Edward Temple became established at Ll----.

CHAPTER XXIII.

I never thought a life could be So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee.

N. P. WILLIS.

No sooner did old Mr. Majoribanks learn from the rector that he had prevailed upon Mr. Temple to fix his residence amongst them, than he was anxious to pay the stranger every possible attention and civility, calling upon him to invite him to dinner, or do anything that might contribute in any way to his comfort and happiness. But Mr. Wynne was obliged to subdue this impulse of hospitality, making the good old gentleman and his family to understand that Mr. Temple being driven, by some heavy private affliction, to the alleviation of his sorrows by solitude and seclusion, the kindest thing would be, for the present, till the poignancy of his feelings should be softened by time, to refrain as much as possible from crossing his wishes in this respect.

The inmates of Glan Pennant, in the most delicate manner, respected and carried out these instructions; so that, by some gentle and gradual attraction, rather than by any outward effort on their part, did the recluse seem finally drawn towards them in more close and intimate communication; till finally, he became not only, as at first--the silent and secret minister to all those little schemes of charity and benevolence the young ladies had so much at heart--but also their personal a.s.sistant and supporter.

Often during the time they were thus thrown intimately together, did Mr.

Wynne, like others perhaps besides, think it could not be but that the lovely Selina Seaham, the flower of Glan Pennant, as the good clergyman was wont to call her, would charm away the sorrows of that n.o.ble heart; and as for the impression Edward Temple might make on that young lady, he thought it was a case decided. However it might have been on that latter point, we have seen that our hero's heart escaped the predicted spell--although in other ways he might esteem and admire the fair lady--and how another charm had secretly enthralled him.

It had been in no slight degree startling to Eustace Trevor to discover the relationship existing between the Seahams and his friend de Burgh; and at first it had nearly determined him to leave the place, lest in any way this fact should tend to his betrayal. But Mr. Wynne soon made it his business to ascertain for his satisfaction that no such chance existed.

Glan Pennant was not visited by any of the young ladies' relations, and never had been for many years. Even the wedding of the last married sister had been unattended by any of them, and indeed it was very rare that regular visitors of any sort came to the place. Sir Hugh Morgan occasionally had a friend or two in a bachelor way, whose society was not much in his line, or likely to consist of any of Eustace's former acquaintance, being generally natives of his own country.

So far Eustace Trevor's mind was set at rest, though still the fact of the relationship haunted his fancy as a strange striking coincidence.

Little did he divine all that this coincidence was destined farther to comprise. Little did he conceive when in his solitary rambles after his settlement at Ll---- he sometimes chanced to meet that young and gentle girl, who had so attracted his interest and attention that first Sunday in the gallery of the church; sometimes tracking with fond alacrity the footsteps of her brother to some lake or mountain stream--or seated in some shady dell, or on some heathy hill, with her sweet smile and dreamy eyes bent upon her book--or plunged in pensive reverie--little did he divine what dream, or rather the mere shadow of a dream, his appearance might chance to dissipate.

It may appear unnatural, that during those few years of acquaintance with one so worthy to win the love and admiration of a mind like Mary Seaham's--under circ.u.mstances too, which, considering the nature of her disposition, might have seemed peculiarly favourable to produce that end--no corresponding sentiments had been awakened in her breast towards Eustace Trevor.

Indeed, we scarcely think it likely this could have proved the case, had the feelings she inspired in his breast been earlier made apparent; but it must be remembered that Mary was very young when Eustace Trevor first came to Ll----, that he arrived too, arrayed in attributes exactly suited to banish from a mind like hers any ideas connected with that of love.

The mighty sorrow of which Mr. Wynne had spoken, and which sat so plainly written on his beautiful countenance--every superior excellence of mind and character, more intimate acquaintance only served to heighten--had conspired to render him, in the estimation of the young girl's child-like, but high-toned mind, as one of that order of beings towards whom reverence and admiration were the only feelings to which, without presumption, one like her could ever dare to aspire.

There was, besides, a distant melancholy reserve in his manner, she imagined, more apparent in his bearing towards herself than to her sisters, which still more effectually contributed to produce this effect; while her sisters, on their part, although equally enthusiastic in their admiration of their new friend, were much more inclined to look upon him in the light of a common mortal like themselves--one indeed for whom it would have been no such great stretch of presumption to entertain feelings of a less exalted character; though the careless youth of the one put all such considerations out of the question, and the good sense of the other stifled any rising inclination of her heart to bestow its affections--when it became too soon plainly evident how little chance existed of winning a corresponding return--from him who, two years after his arrival, calmly a.s.sisted in the ceremony which united her to the young officer, who had proved himself less invulnerable to the powers of attraction she possessed. Yet far was Eustace Trevor from being naturally p.r.o.ne to coldness and insensibility on a point like this; he was one

"To gaze on woman's beauty as a star, Whose purity and distance make it fair."

And fair indeed did it seem to him, when on his night of darkness it shone forth with so bright and clear a light as in the daughters of Glan Pennant. But that light to him must be indeed far distant, for the morbid sensibility with which he contemplated the dark features of his past history, cast its blasting influence even over this purest and most natural point of his heart's ambition; and mournfully he would silence any allusions his friend would venture to make upon the subject.

His was not a fate he could solicit any being, blessing and blessed like those fair girls, to share; and sadly would he seek to quench the feeling which, day by day, year by year--as the gentle excellence, the sweet attractions of Mary Seaham were more and more developed--gathered strength within his heart.

This it was which made her deem his manner cold and distant, in comparison with that he evinced towards her sisters. Little did she imagine how the spirit of that n.o.ble-minded man bowed down before her mild, unconscious might; how, if he turned away coldly from her soft words and timid glance, it was because he feared their power might draw forth a manifestation of that he had vowed to himself to conceal--

"I might not dim thy fortune bright, With love so sad as mine."

No--we see he kept his secret but too well--so well, that not only the object herself, but even his anxious and much-interested friend Mr.

Wynne, never suspected a truth which would have given him such unfeigned delight.

A year before the period at which our story opens, and soon after performing, to his no great satisfaction, the marriage ceremony for his lovely young friend Selina Seaham, the worthy man had left Ll----; yielding at length to the persuasions of his friends that he would, according to the advice of the medical men, try the effect of a year or two's sojourn on the continent in alleviating his troublesome and obstinate, if not mortal, complaint.

An efficient subst.i.tute had been found to fill his place. Eustace Trevor also remained, as we have seen, continuing to render those services which, year by year, had only been the more valuable and distinguished--services never to be erased from the memories of that little flock, with whom, during his ministry amongst them, he had rendered himself equally honoured and beloved. But the following year, as we have seen, brought events of no small importance to the fates and fortunes of the princ.i.p.al personages of our history.

The determination of the Majoribanks to leave Glan Pennant, the marriage of Agnes Seaham, the peculiar nature of Mary's circ.u.mstances; and how, consequent on those events, finally influenced by the last consideration, Eustace Trevor in that momentous interview on the heathy hill's side--casting his future hopes of happiness on one die--gave way to the long-checked, long-concealed impulses of his heart, and poured forth his tale of love upon her startled ear. Need we recapitulate the sequel, "How pale the startled lady stood" on the borders of that green and silent hill.

It was too late to open before her eyes the treasure which had so long been within her reach. He had failed to touch that chord, by which alone the heart of woman can be moved--Mary's heart so pure, so good, was yet a woman's. What, that for months and years devotedly he had lingered by her side, loving her in secret with a love so fervent and so deep, she had remained insensible to that hidden spell; whilst one glance from the stranger's dark eyes--one low thrilling tone of his flattering voice had sufficed to pluck away her heart. But so it was, and so it oft-times is; and there is little need to tell again how Eustace Trevor, his last reed broken, his last ray of light extinguished, turned away to seek his sad and silent home--

"The shadow of a starless night,"

thrown upon that world, in which henceforth he must move so desolate and alone.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Thou too art gone--and so is my delight, And therefore do I weep, and inly bleed, With this last bruise upon a broken reed.

Thou too art ended--what is left me now?

For I have anguish yet to bear--and how?

BYRON.

As may be supposed, the peaceful vale of Ll---- from this time forth became an altered place to Eustace Trevor. "There are places in the world we never wish to see again, however dear they be to us." Such to his disappointed heart was Mary Seaham's deserted home, and every spot in the vicinity haunted by a.s.sociations connected with that loved being.

Yet he lingered, pursuing his former avocations, partly from principle, partly from the painful pleasure thus afforded, partly from the anxious desire to remain upon the spot, where alone he could hope to receive tidings of his lost one.

A strange restless foreboding had been excited in his mind from the first moment that he had heard of Mary's intended destination; and it was this, no doubt, which in a great measure urged him to take the decisive step which had proved so unavailing. Not of course had he in any way embodied the real nature of the misfortune his ominous fears presented; that event would indeed have seemed a coincidence too fearful to be conceived probable; but besides there being something most repellant to his feelings in the idea of that gentle object of his heart's unhappy affections wandering away into the sphere now so darkly a.s.sociated in his mind--some presentiment of danger and sorrow to herself, quite unconnected with any selfish considerations, had darkly mingled. All through that summer then, whose brightness to him was gone; all that autumn too, till like his own fallen hopes, the yellow leaf lay thick around, "and the days were dark and dreary," he stayed; then--then--had reached his ears, at first by vague and dull report, tidings which froze into the very ice of winter the life-blood in his heart--Miss Mary Seaham was going to be married to a very rich and handsome gentleman of those parts; and his name--yes, that was it--he would have thanked Heaven on his knees, had it been any other name on earth--that name. It came with terrible exactness, that name was "Eugene Trevor." Then, indeed, a dreadful feeling of horror, of despair, a.s.sailed him. His cup of bitterness was full; could malignant fate do more to crush him?

Mary Seaham, the wife of his brother! Of him who had dealt so treacherously by him, who without cause, had proved himself his deadly enemy. _His_ wife? nay his victim. Another angel victim, of covetousness, tyranny, and vice. It must not, nay, it _should_ not be; anything--everything must be done to avert the sacrifice. In a word, every other consideration was at an end. He left Ll---- and went to London; there he traced out that faithful servant to whom we have alluded, and through him took steps to gain a too sure confirmation of what he had heard, and besides that, many particulars concerning the mode of life of his brother, during the interval of their separation, which only served to invest with fresh horror, the idea of his union with Mary.

His course was taken. He wrote to his brother the momentous letter, which turned the current of poor Mary's bliss.