Eugene Trevor accordingly mounted his beautiful horse, all fierce and fiery for the want of exercise, and rode fast to Silverton without scarcely once slackening his steed's pace. Just as he approached the mansion, he raised his eyes to a chamber window above. Strange to say, he never drew near the house without being moved with a pang smiting at his heart, fraught with more or less of regretful recollections; for he could not but remember whose gentle eyes had so often watched for him there.

But to-day, a darker and more determined spirit spoke in the upward "flash of that dilating eye," as his horse's hoofs clattered over the stony approach.

Mrs. de Burgh only, he heard to his satisfaction was at home, and she was confined to her dressing-room with a sprained ankle, but no doubt would see Mr. Trevor—a supposition in which the servant was quite correct.

Mrs. de Burgh was only too delighted to have the tediousness of her confinement thus broken in upon, particularly as she was hoping to hear all about Marryott's death, and the strange circumstances connected with the forged notes of which only vague and contradictory reports had reached her ear.

Having, therefore, first accounted for her accident, and giving vent to some complaining strictures on Louis's unfeeling conduct in leaving her alone; whilst he went visiting and amusing himself in Scotland, making it indeed appear an act very unconjugal and unkind, till it came out that Mr. de Burgh's departure had taken place before her accident; and that she had in her fretful pique never written to inform her husband of what had occurred.

After this the fair lady began to question her cousin concerning the late events at Montrevor, and Eugene Trevor to satisfy her curiosity as far, and in the manner he deemed most expedient.

"So you see, Olivia," he added, "altogether I have had a pretty time of it lately, what with one thing and another, and have been terribly put out."

"Well, I thought there was something the matter, as you had quite deserted Silverton."

"Plenty the matter; but there was one subject I came on purpose to speak to you about to-day; you were always my friend in need, Olivia, and I want to consult you—I mean about Mary Seaham."

"Oh, indeed!" replied the lady, with a suppressed yawn, and a tone in which the words "that weary old subject" seemed expressed; for there is nothing which in the end so much wears out the sympathy and interest of one's friends, however much excited they may have been in the beginning, as a protracted love affair.

"Oh, indeed! have you seen or heard anything of her lately?" Mrs. de Burgh then inquired with assumed interest.

"Yes, I saw her at —— after the trial, at which, you know, I had to appear. She was there with her brother, who was retained for the prisoner."

"Indeed, how did she look? is she much altered, poor girl?"

"I don't know," he answered gloomily; "she looked pale; but then, our interview was of no very pleasing nature, and.... But I have heard from her since then," he added, in the same tone, without concluding the former sentence; "she writes to break off the engagement."

"Well, Eugene, you can scarcely wonder; you must own, you have tried her patience to the very uttermost," his cousin answered, smiling reproachfully; "but it is just the way with you men," she continued, as she scanned more closely the working of Eugene's countenance, "you would keep us waiting till doomsday to serve your own convenience, without one scruple of concern; but if we begin to show any disposition to be off, then you are, forsooth, the injured and aggrieved; well, however, is it not as well? What profit or pleasure can such an engagement be to you, who year after year seem no nearer the end than at the beginning? and as for your father, I believe he's 'the never-dying one.'"

"But, Olivia, matters have lately taken a different aspect," her cousin muttered, gloomily, "my father is urging me to marry, and would do anything to further it. I would marry her to-morrow, if it could only be managed."

"Well, why not tell her so. I suppose it was only the apparent hopelessness of the case which induced her to give you up—tell her at once."

"I did tell her when I saw her last—more, I pressed an immediate marriage urgently upon her; but," with a bitter laugh, "the idea has become so repugnant to her feelings, that she absolutely fainted with horror and aversion."

"Nonsense, Eugene, from joy most likely."

"Joy, indeed—and that letter she wrote after. Oh, no! she has taken it into her head that I am a villain, and—"

Mrs. de Burgh laughed.

"A villain," she repeated, "not quite so bad as that I hope, though not very good I am afraid. A villain! no, we must manage to get that idea at least out of the young lady's head."

"But how?" Eugene asked.

"Why, really, I don't know; let me see—I will write to her—though letters are not worth much. I wish, indeed, I could get her here away from her relations, who are all such terribly good people."

Eugene Trevor drew his chair eagerly forward.

"What here, do you really mean it—do you think it possible—that there would be any chance of her consenting to come?"

"I do not see why it should be impossible—at any rate we can try, and I flatter myself I am not a little clever about these sort of things. Oh, depend upon it, poor girl, she will only be too glad to be persuaded into loving you again. But then, Eugene, I must be sure that you really are in earnest—that the affair will be really brought to a decided issue, before I move again in the business. I burnt my fingers too severely with it before, and brought upon myself quite sufficient odium. What does Mary say in her letter? I must be quite au fait in the business, you know, and understand what I am about."

"You shall know everything," said Eugene, approaching nearer, and subduing his tone to a confidential whisper. "It is a more complicated matter than you suppose. There is one very serious point to be dealt with: you will be surprised when you hear that it relates to my unlucky brother."

Mrs. de Burgh started, and looked a little uncomfortable.

"First of all," he added in still lower tones; "but," pausing suddenly, "will you be so good as to tell that young gentleman not to stare me out of countenance," alluding to his cousin's eldest boy, a delicate and serious-looking child, who sat on his mother's sofa, his intelligent eyes with earnest scrutiny rivetted upon Eugene's countenance, as he sat there with bent brow, and dark look of brooding care.

"Don't be rude, Charlie; go to the nursery," said his mother, half angry, half amused. "Why do you stare at cousin Eugene? do you not think he is very handsome?"

The boy coloured, but rising slowly, as if to escape an answer to the question, murmured evasively:

"Yes, I'll go up stairs, and look at my pictures about the dark-looking Cain thinking about his brother Abel."

"The strange child," said Mrs. de Burgh, with a little awkward laugh, for she knew the picture to which the child alluded, and was irresistibly struck by the similitude which it seems had suggested the comparison. A dark flush at the same time suffused the temples of her companion; but it had soon passed away. After a momentary pause, drawing near Mrs. de Burgh, and placing his chair a little behind her couch, with eyes bent still on the ground, Eugene resumed the subject thus interrupted. He spoke to her of his brother.

We will not detail the conversation, or how much, or in what manner he revealed or confided of that momentous theme. We must not compromise Mrs. de Burgh by supposing it possible she would have made herself privy to any known questionable transaction; suffice it to say, that it was dusk before Eugene Trevor rose to leave her, and that then the cousins parted most amicably.

Eugene promised to ride over very soon again; and when he had gone, Mrs. de Burgh after lying still meditating for a short time, aroused herself with the philosophical observation that this was a strange world—rang the bell for lights, which being brought, and her writing materials laid before her, she wrote as follows:

"My dearest Mary,

"Eugene Trevor has just been here, wretched beyond description, to tell me you have broken off your engagement with him just as matters were beginning to take a favourable turn, and he could marry you to-morrow. I tell him he deserves this for having taxed your patience so long; but that, as you may imagine, gives him little comfort. But, Mary dear, I cannot believe you so very hard-hearted as to place so final an extinguisher on his hopes.

"He tells me you have listened to reports about him; one scandalous story in particular he mentioned, about his strange and unfortunate brother, in behalf of whom, some romantic adventures in Wales and abroad, gave you an interest unduly awarded. I say unduly—because, however fine and noble a creature Eustace Trevor may be by nature, it is not right that you should be unfaithful and unjust to Eugene through his cause. However, this is an affair which we cannot rightly dispose of in a letter; in one conversation I could put everything before you, dear, as clear as day.

"My dear Mary, come to Silverton; you owe it to Eugene—you owe it to yourself—you owe it to me, who first made you known to my cousin, not to refuse this request. I do not know where to direct this letter, I only know that you are somewhere in Wales, so send it to Plas Glyn, from whence it is certain to be forwarded to you. When I also tell you I am confined to my sofa by a terrible sprain which will keep me a prisoner, Heaven knows how long, you will suspect perhaps a little selfish feeling is mixed up with my solicitude for your visit; but no, indeed, I am too seriously anxious for your own happiness and Eugene's to have any such minor considerations, though a pleasure only too great would it be to me to have my dear Mary with me again.

"Louis will be at home by the time you arrive. I need not say how glad he will be to see you. Eugene shall not come here at all, if you do not like it—he need not even know of your arrival; he seldom comes to Silverton now. Alas, poor fellow! the recollections this place awakens can be but painful to him under present circumstances.

"Mary, Eugene may have some faults, but still I maintain that you might have made him what you wished, and that love so tried as his ought not to be thrown away, as you are about to do. Not many men, after being exposed to the temptations to which Eugene has been subjected, would still, after four years' almost constant separation, be so very urgent in the cause of marriage. But, dear Mary, even setting aside all this, what have you better to do than to come here with your faithful servant? You surely do not mean quite to desert Silverton and your cousins. I want you to see my children; the youngest is such a fine creature. I shall look forward to your answer with the greatest anxiety; you do not know how much may depend on acceding to the request of

"Your affectionate
"Olivia."

And this was the letter Mary at last received, after having, day after day, waited in sick and solitary suspense for any answer which she might have received from Eugene Trevor—solitary, for though her brother, as speedily as his professional engagements would permit, had followed her, a summons from Judge Elliott had quickly succeeded, offering the young man some very responsible legal appointment, which required his immediate presence in London. Of course there could be no question of demur. Mary urged her brother's immediate departure, over-ruling any scruples on his part at leaving her alone, and his earnest desire that at least she should accompany him to town.

No, she persuaded him that she should rather like the rest and quiet of the place in her present state of feeling; "besides, dear Arthur," she said with a melancholy smile, "it is necessary that I should begin to learn to accustom myself to a solitary life."

"I do not at all see that, Mary," Arthur answered almost angrily—"why your's should ever be solitary."

"No indeed," was the affectionate reply; "I know that can never be, with such a brother, and," with a playful smile, "such a sister as I hope soon to have."

"Mary, you have become very anxious to dispose of your brother."

"Yes, certainly I am, to such advantage;" then with gaiety which shot a ray of gladsome pleasure from the young man's bright eyes, she added: "besides, I am as much in love with Carrie as yourself; and she and I are sure to get on well together."

So Mary was left alone, supposed at least to be calmly happy, when alas, poor girl! to such a desirable condition she was as yet very far from having arrived. No, there was as yet too much of suspense and uncertainty still gnawing within her soul.

It is not all at once, without a struggle, and one backward longing look, that we can resign ourselves to the certainty that the hope and trust on which we had flung our all, has proved a lie. There were two letters yet to come ere she could let the black curtain fall over the past for ever.

Alone too, with a dreamy impression stealing over her, that whatever her brother's affection might maintain, this loneliness was a foretaste of her future life. And then the bitter sigh and yearning void, as the thought flew back to visions all too brightly wrought, now for ever flown.

Her faithful servant, who marked her dear young lady's spirits sink lower and lower every day, sighed too over her disappointed expectations, for she thought "it would have been better for Miss Mary to have married Mr. Trevor—even if he were somewhat of a wild gentleman, as they said he was: she is so like an angel that she could tame a lion. So good and tender a heart as hers, was never made to live alone with no one to love her, and to love—and my heart misgives me," added the affectionate servant. "She will never get over the affair. And Mr. Arthur too, he is getting too great a man to have much time to give to her—and there's his heart too, quite gone they say after Miss Elliott, who is as much taken with him I fancy; and after all he is but a brother, and the best of them are not so sure and comfortable like as a husband. But after all," the good woman continued to soliloquize, "a bad character will not certainly do for my young lady, and there's something wrong in the Trevors they say. Who would have thought it, and my Miss Mary loving Mr. Eugene as she did; but she is so good and innocent-hearted herself! At any rate, she must not stay moping here much longer. I can see she's getting quite low and nervous."

These were good Mrs. Hughes' thoughts and reflections on the subject, and it was no inconsiderable satisfaction to her mind, when Mary came to her one morning with a letter in her hand, informing her, that she had received an invitation from Silverton, which she intended to accept, and begged her to prepare without delay for the journey; after which Mary sat down and wrote to Mrs. de Burgh, and also the following announcement to her brother:

"Dearest Arthur,

"You will be surprised—perhaps not well pleased—to hear that I am going to set off to-morrow for Silverton. I have had a pressing letter from Olivia de Burgh; and there are many things that I must have explained by Louis and herself, before I feel that I can with a mind contented and at ease settle down (I do not speak ironically, but with the calm assurance that there will be much of blessedness in store for me) in that estate—a life of single blessedness—which now lies before me.

"Do not then suspect me of weak and wavering motives in the step I am going to take. Believe me when I say, that it is not my intention even to see Eugene. Olivia has promised that I should not meet him unless I desire it; and what could our meeting cause, but pain and discomfort to us both? No, I can no longer fight against the conviction which time and my more experienced perception has forced upon me, that Eugene Trevor is not what my blind affection so long firmly believed him.

"God knows my love was not of an evanescent nature; and irresistible indeed must be the causes which have so undermined it. But still my heart shrinks from doing an act of injustice, by condemning him more than he deserves; and there is one horrible suspicion with which my mind has been distracted, my heart can never rest till it has been more clearly enlightened.

"Oh, Arthur! it is a dark and terrible story, I cannot enter upon it now. Suffice it that, if true, it must cast a shadow on my latest hour of existence. If you knew how it has—how it still preys upon my imagination, even till I sometimes fear the bewildering influence it may produce upon my senses, you would not now blame the impulse which leads me to prefer even the risk of obtaining this fearful certainty—rather than continue groping in darkness—for to such I may compare the condition under which I have for some time laboured. But Olivia has promised that my mind shall be relieved, and Louis, I know, will tell me the truth. May God give me strength and fortitude to bear it.

"I shall not wish to remain at Silverton longer than is absolutely necessary; if therefore your business will permit you to join me there, I can travel with you back into Wales where the Morgans will by that time have returned, and I can stay with them as they wish, till our plans and prospects, dear Arthur, are more finally arranged."