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"Arthur, this can scarcely be possible," Mary exclaimed with almost trembling solicitude, when alone with her brother, he informed her of the proposal Mr. Wynne had made—and he had unhesitatingly accepted—that he and his friend Mr. Temple should join their party during the succeeding week's tour.

"Not if it is disagreeable to you, Mary, certainly," was the brother's reply; "otherwise I must say I can see no objection to the plan; nor does Mr. Wynne either it seems, as he made the proposal, being of course aware by this time of the past circumstances respecting you and Temple. All that of course is an affair over and forgotten, particularly when made aware how matters stand with regard to your engagement with Trevor; so on your part, you will have nothing to fear. It only rests with him, I should think, to determine whether he is equal to the ordeal of your society, though to judge by his countenance just now, firm and calm as a statue, after a meeting which must have put his feelings rather to the test, I should say there was not much doubt upon the matter.

No—no, Miss Mary, that is not our way, however it may be with you ladies in cases of the kind.

Thus the brother playfully sung and quoted, though whether the philosophical doctrine the old poet implied in his song had the effect of easing his listener's mind upon the point in question, her faint and absent smile was not exactly calculated to declare; though perhaps could he have read aright the secret history of that anxious countenance, he might have seen how far less any such considerations were agitating his sister's mind than the remembrance of Eugene's strange and angry excitement in the Edinburgh gardens, on the subject of this same Edward Temple; and the question now chiefly agitating her breast to be, whether she could without treason to her lover, place herself in the position and circumstances now under discussion—yet what was she to do? She knew that Arthur could not enter into her feelings on this point; besides, was there not some unconfessed leaning in her secret heart in favour of the arrangement. For that interview of the morning, and the circumstances from which it took its rise; had it not aroused ideas of perplexity, interest, and anxiety in her mind? was there not still much left unaccounted for and unexplained?

She mentioned the ring to her brother. He was surprised, and thought it a strange coincidence, though certainly it did often happen that families of different names, bore the same crests, sometimes the same arms.

Mary's recognition of the impression showed at least there to be, some connection between Eugene Trevor and Mr. Temple. Arthur could easily gain explanation from Mr. Wynne on the subject. He also was often puzzled to know to what family of Temple his friend belonged.

But, before time or explanation was given for any such inquiry, the little party yielding themselves passively as it were to the irresistible force of circumstances which had so singularly united them, were pursuing their way over the enchanted ground Arthur had previously marked out for their excursion, most of which the two more experienced travellers had already explored, but gladly retrode for the benefit of their young companions.

They wandered delightedly, and never did Mr. Wynne and Arthur cease to congratulate themselves and one another; the latter, on the valuable acquisition he and his sister had gained in such able cicerones as himself and his companion; whilst Mary and Mr. Temple, by their silence only, gave testimony to the same effect.

Yes, it were well for the good Mr. Wynne and the young and hopeful-hearted Arthur

to yield themselves to the charm of sunny skies and classic ground, and to feel almost as if earth wanted no more to make it Heaven.

But for the other two, as may be supposed, there wanted something more, or rather something less, to render their enjoyment as full and unalloyed.

For in spite of all Arthur had urged to the contrary, it was too plainly evident that something there was—a restraint—a consciousness, influencing their secret feelings, and imparting themselves to their outward demeanour, in common intercourse one with another; which no exciting or absorbing diversities of scene or circumstance could entirely dissipate or dispel.

Sometimes indeed, Mary, carried away by the delight of the moment, would forget whose eye had fixed itself for a brief moment, with such earnest interest, on her countenance; or even meet unshrinkingly the glance, the smile of sympathy, which her murmurings of enraptured admiration at times drew forth.

Sometimes unconsciously, as if it had been only as a portion of the magic spell which hung on all around her, she found herself listening to that voice, whose few, calm, graphic words had power to throw desired light on some old haunt or story—or touch with a bright glow the scene before them, or oftener turn away with a startled look of anxious thought as if some sudden association or remembrance recalled her to consciousness, and broke the spell.

"Too happy to be your guide and guardian, through scenes and beauty which even your lively imagination is incompetent to conceive!"

Did the words, which had once proceeded from those same lips, thrill upon her recollection? or was it only the jealous disapproval of her lover Eugene which would start up to trouble her on such occasions?

Whilst Eustace—it would be vain to tell what caused the quick transition of that glance or smile into the cold and rigidly averted brow, or caused to die away upon his lips words whose inspiration sprang from a source which could not be worthily encouraged.

Thus, day after day went on, and brought but diminished opportunity of touching on those points of interest so near her heart, and concerning which she more and more became possessed with the vague and restless fancy, that Mr. Temple possessed more power than any one imagined of enlightenment; for she avoided, as much as possible, finding herself alone with him, and if at times, as inevitably it occurred, they were thrown together apart from the other two, Mary's haunting vision of Eugene's jealous disapproval of her intimacy with Mr. Temple would cast a restraint over her feelings, and made her shrink from availing herself of the favourable opportunity thus afforded.

Of course Mr. Wynne—and through him Eustace Trevor had soon learnt from Arthur every particular relating to his sister's situation with regard to Eugene, and the effect produced upon the latter by the circumstances which transpired, was evidenced only by the calm, rigid expression which settled on his interesting countenance—only subdued into soft and gentle melancholy, when at times, unobserved by herself, his eyes could fix themselves on Mary; and as for meeting her half-way, in any renewal of the subject, so particularly discussed near the fountain that first morning of their meeting, he, with almost equal pointedness, might have seemed to avoid any occasion which could tend to its revival.

On the other hand, from Mr. Wynne the more unconscious and unsuspecting Arthur could gain little satisfactorily information on the topic on which he had promised to make inquiries. He always fought off any cross questioning on any particular subject connected with his friend Temple.

Indeed this was easy enough to do; for heart and soul absorbed in the exciting enjoyment of scenes and circumstances in which he entered with such enthusiastic delight, Arthur was not very capable of pressing hard just now upon any serious point, not immediately connected with the interest of the day or the hour.

But when Mary, with whom the old man had hitherto as skilfully warded off any timid attempts on her part to draw him forth on the subject on which he was vowed to secresy—when she, one sultry afternoon, had been conversing for some time so delightfully with her dear old friend, concerning days gone by, in the cool marble sala of an old palazzo near Genoa, where they had found temporary accommodation—without any preparation, fixed her earnest eyes upon her companion's face, and said beseechingly:

"Mr. Wynne, will you answer me one question? you are acquainted I know, with everything concerning Mr. Temple; but I only wish to ascertain one point; was he ever acquainted with Eugene Trevor?"

The good man was taken by surprise, and displayed by his countenance considerable signs of embarrassment, succeeded, however, by equal symptoms of relief, when looking up he beheld Mr. Temple, who had joined them unobserved, and must inevitably have overheard Mary's words, and witnessed the perplexity they had occasioned her friend.

Mary's cheek also flushed deeply; yet when the next moment Mr. Wynne, with some careless excuse for leaving them, had walked away, and she found herself alone with him who best could answer to the question which had scarcely died upon her lips, she took courage, and with her eyelashes sweeping her varying cheek, in a low, yet steady voice, said:

"Mr. Temple, I was asking Mr. Wynne a question, to which for some reason he did not seem able or willing to reply; will you tell me whether you ever knew Eugene Trevor?"

An instant's pause—then, in a tone in which, though calm, there was something unnatural and strange in the sound, there came the laconic reply—"I did."

And then there was a solemn pause. For what could Eustace Trevor add—how reply to the mute but eager questioning of those eyes, now fixed intently upon him, as if in the verdict of his lips there lay more power to ease the heart of its blind fears and nameless misgivings—more in one calm word of his

Therefore, though Mary held her breath, hoping, longing that he should proceed, yet shrinking from more direct inquiry, there he stood, with lips compressed and stern averted eyes; no marble statue could have remained more mute; till to break the ominous and oppressive silence, Mary pronounced the name of "Eustace Trevor."

Then, indeed, her listener's eyes relaxed their fixed expression—a sudden glow lit up his countenance.

In a low, deep tone, and with a soft, melancholy smile, he demanded:

"And what, Miss Seaham, of Eustace Trevor?"

"What of him? Oh! Mr. Temple, all—everything that you may know—may have reason to suspect or conceive concerning him!"

Another pause; and then the voice of Mr. Temple, with renewed sadness replied:

"What could I tell you concerning him, but that he is a wanderer upon the face of the earth, as you—as everybody are aware."

"But why—but wherefore should this be; why forsake his country, his home, his kindred? Now, when Louis de Burgh gave me reason to suppose all further necessity was removed, his temporary affliction entirely subsided, why not return?"

"Return!" interrupted the other—"return with that brand—that stigma—which once attached to his name, must mark him in the eyes of men—a thing of suspicion, nay, of fear for ever; return, when that return must be to hear that curse in every blast—to be cut off from every hope, every tie which makes life beautiful to other men, or—" he paused; for he was on the point of saying, "or—bitter alternative—brand a still worse stigma on another; on one who however unworthy of such consideration, I must still remember as my brother." Thus he probably would have spoken, had not he been recalled to recollection by the strange and anxious expression depicted on Mary's countenance, and then he added, with an effort at self-command:

"The imputation of madness is a fearful thing, Miss Seaham, to be attached to a man's name; and Eustace Trevor, unfortunate man! is possessed of feelings most sensitive—morbidly sensitive, perhaps."

"It is—it is," Mary faltered, "a fearful thing if suffered to rest there; but surely his is not the course to accomplish the removal of the idea. Let Eustace Trevor but return—let him at least try and experience what a brother's kindness—what a sister's love can do, to wipe from his remembrance the morbid memory of his past affliction; and show to the world (if he fears its altered smiles) that the shock his noble mind sustained was but for a moment; that he is—"

But it was enough—those words, a brother's kindness—still more, a sister's love, had thrilled acutely upon the listener's heart.

And Mary paused, startled to behold the expression in the eyes bent so earnestly upon her.

"A sister's love!" what was such love to him!

However, with another strong effort he said in a voice scarce audible from emotion, "For such a sister's love, he might indeed brave and defy the scorn—the ignominy of the universe; but," he faltered, "it cannot be."

A silence of some minutes ensued. It was broken by Mary, who said in an anxious trembling voice,

"Mr. Temple, I have a favour to ask of you: I know you are acquainted with much of the private history of the Trevors—I am sure you are—I therefore entreat you will speak candidly upon the subject, and tell me your own opinion of Eugene Trevor. To you I can speak as I feel I can to no one else. My mind of late has been disturbed by doubts and fears upon the subject of Eugene. I know you can, you will speak the truth; so conceal not your real opinion from me."

"Miss Seaham, excuse me," Mr. Temple replied gravely, and with a degree of proud coldness. "I must decline to speak in any way of Eugene Trevor. It is a long time now since we have met."

"Oh, why—why," faltered Mary, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, "would you too, like the rest, by your looks, even by your silence, make me suspect the worth, the rectitude of Eugene, and give me the miserable idea that the affection and heart's devotion now of years have been wasted and bestowed in vain?"

It was a difficult moment for that generous, noble soul. The peculiar situation in which he was placed almost bewildered his sense of discernment between what was right and wrong in his position, and darkened the way before him. How act—how speak—how meet this critical emergency?

The struggle must have been indeed intense, which enabled him at length to rise a conqueror over the conflicting powers which beset his soul, to subdue all selfish promptings of inferior nature—all selfish impulses and considerations; and speak and act as one might have spoken and acted who had never been Mary Seaham's lover, or Eugene Trevor's injured brother.

As a brother to a well-beloved sister—or as one of his high and holy calling might have seized that favourable opportunity for endeavouring to turn a perplexed and trembling suppliant on his counsel and assistance from some dangerous path or fatal delusion, he took up the strain, and implored her not to seek from him any further information on a subject—concerning which he must tell her at once, that for many reasons it was impossible for him to enter—he could not speak of Eugene Trevor. But he implored her to think well of those warnings so strongly pressed upon her consideration by her anxious friends—above all, by the internal evidence of her own pure soul—against a course of action in which the peace and happiness of her future life might be so fatally involved.

"Talk not of wasted affection," he touchingly exclaimed; "affection disinterested and blameless as yours, was never wasted—never bestowed in vain—for some good purpose, the All Wise so willed that you should for a time bestow it, and if He ordains that its waters should turn back, like the rain to their springs, He wills also that they should fill them with refreshment. Miss Seaham, it is not for me to advise you to break off your engagement with Eugene Trevor. I am the last person in the world—situated towards you as I have been"—he added in a low sad voice, "who ought to presume so to do; but let me speak to you, as you may remember I once before addressed you—before it had ever entered my heart to conceive you would stand in the position you now are in towards this Eugene Trevor. Did I not then warn you of the world into which you were hastening so unwarily—of its sins, its sorrows, and its snares; but still more, of its friendships, its smiles, its Judas kisses, awaiting not alone the eagle but the dove—the holy, harmless, and undefiled? And now do not my gloomy words find an echo in your heart? does not that look of care, that heavy sigh, confess that it had been better never to have tasted of the feverish joy, the unsatisfying delight, in exchange for the peace and tranquillity you had hitherto enjoyed? Is not your confidence disturbed—your trust shaken in the object on whom your affections have been set? do you not fear to lean more heavily on that reed lest it pierce you—to grasp it firmer, lest you crush, and prove its hollowness? Oh, Miss Seaham! is not this in some degree the case with you? if so, do not seek to dive further into the why or the wherefore. Let God's providence have its way, when, it seeks to turn you from a course it is not good for you to follow. Let faith and patience have their perfect work; seek peace and happiness from a higher, surer source than the dubious object on which your affections have been placed."

Mr. Temple paused, but he had no reason to suppose his earnest appeal had been as water spilt upon the ground; for something in Mary's face—that something, which had become of late its ruling and habitual expression, which might have seemed to breathe forth the Psalmist's weary longing for "the wings of a dove to fly away and be at rest"—at rest, from the ever receding hopes—the sickening doubts and apprehensions—the wearying mysteries attendant on her position, which pressed so heavily on a nature formed rather for the peace and calm of gentle emotions, of peaceful joys, than for its strife of passions, its storm of woes; an expression which had appeared to Eustace Trevor to deepen as he spoke, for not for a moment did he dare to interpret it otherwise. Never did he surmise—never dare even to desire—that words uttered with such disinterested and single-minded intention, and in accents tremulous with such unselfish emotions, could in any other way affect his listener's heart. That in that hour of languid yearning for strength she felt that she did not possess; for rest and peace founded on some surer basis than that "reed shaken by the wind," such as her inauspicious love had gradually assumed the semblance, she should be most ready to lean her weary head on the noble breast, cling to the sheltering arm of him who thus had counselled her, and placing her destiny in his hands, ask him to guide her future course through the deceitful bewildering mazes of this life.

But no word, no look betrayed the secret impulse of her heart; and in the same anxious strain Eustace Trevor proceeded:

"Darkly, ambiguously, I have been compelled to speak; the subject having been, as you can bear witness, forced in a manner upon me; yet one step further I will take, and leave the rest in the hands of God. This ring," drawing the signet from his finger, where for the first time since the adventure in which it had formed a part, Mary had again seen it; "keep it," he continued, in a voice tremulous with emotion as Mary mechanically received it in her hands, looking wonderingly and enquiringly in his face; "keep it till you see him, Eugene Trevor again; then show it to him from me—from Edward Temple. Tell him the circumstances under which you received it, and ask him to clear up the mystery concerning it. If he refuses, then for his own sake as well as your own, I conjure you to bid him farewell for ever. If on the contrary, casting off all falsehood and deceit, he lays all before you, then—then—may Heaven direct the rest!"

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An hour or two after Mary had been left alone within the marble sala, almost as in a dream, gazing upon that mysterious and momentous ring, the little party were proceeding northwards in the cool of the evening, in one of the hired conveyances of the country. Mary, her brother, and Mr. Wynne occupying the interior; Mary being only at a later stage of the journey, confirmed in her supposition of Mr. Temple having proceeded thus far on the outside, for since he had parted abruptly from her he had not again appeared.

Then, however, when, to change horses, they stopped before a road-side inn, her brother suddenly touched her arm, and directed her attention towards the spot, where in the shadow of the door, his features only partly distinguished in the declining evening light, stood the tall and stately figure of Temple, apparently conversing with Mr. Wynne who had just alighted, though his eyes were fixed earnestly in their direction.

"Look, Mary, does it not strike you now?"

"What, Arthur?"

"That likeness; there just as he stands in that uncertain light?"

Mary for all reply shuddered slightly, and turned away her head. The next moment Mr. Wynne had rejoined them, and they started again.

But by the inn-door there still stood that dark figure.

Arthur, with an exclamation of surprise, put forth his head, and inquired why they had left Mr. Temple behind.

"Because—because," Mr. Wynne replied in a peculiar tone of voice, "he has taken it into his head not to travel any further with us just now. I shall rejoin him when I have seen you safe at Genoa, for I cannot make up my mind to part so suddenly with my two dear children. Temple desired me to bid you good bye, Arthur, for he has no great fancy for leave-takings, at any time; and I was to say farewell for him to you too, Miss Mary."

This he said in a more serious manner, taking Mary's hand as he spoke, and gazing earnestly into her face. The hand he held was very cold, and on the pale face there was a strange and anxious expression; but whilst Arthur was loud in his professions of surprise and regret at this unexpected deprivation, Mary uttered no word of astonishment or regret.

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